The Mask Maker
by mau'indi
Summary: Sequel to Forbidden Alliance - Sira is a slave. Worthless, powerless, she is saved by a dark, faceless warrior with a mysterious past. As she slowly falls for him, she is dragged into a world of secrets and schemes that threaten to tear her world apart and destroy everyone she loves. Can she trust the yautja known as the Mask Maker, or will he be her undoing?
1. A Debt

_The Mask Maker_ is dedicated to the followers of _Forbidden Alliance_ who reviewed, followed and asked for more. I just couldn't say no.

For those of you unfamiliar with _Forbidden Alliance_, most of this won't make sense unless you read the 40-chapter monster I posted two years ago. Fair warning: I have tendency to deviate quite a bit from canon/fanon. Fair encouragement: All characters are OC and you'll rarely encounter spelling/grammar errors. *Crosses fingers*

I'm probably crazy for posting this - I'm still working on the conclusion to the Spear Trilogy, creating lore for tabletop rpg that needs to get done ASAP _and_ fast approaching the busiest time at my job - but inspiration ran me over this past week and I wrote two chapters for this story in my notebook. So I figured since I already have three chapters for _The Mask Maker_ 99% complete and digital, why not upload the first?

So without further ado, consider posting a review if you want Chapter 2.

* * *

**Pronunciation Guide**

Erefet - EIR-eh-fet

hajara - hah-JAH-rah - the title of chieftain's mate in the central wastelands

Kahet - KAH-het

kalei - KAH-lei

nana - NAH-NAH - mother

Ona - OH-nah - shortened version of o'nana (grandmother), often applied to elder females as a term of endearment or respect

Orus - OAR-russ

Raika - RAI-kah

shajara - shah-JAH-rah - the title of a chieftain in the central wastelands

Sira - SEE-rah

Tharrak - THARR-ack

* * *

**A Debt**

* * *

The two suns beat down on the cracked earth, boiling the air until writhing waves of crimson danced across the desert. The sea of fire silently burned the as far the eye could see, stretching from the northern mountains to the endless wastelands bordering the southern sea. Today, its scorching tongues reached towards the clouds, burying everything beneath its oppressive heat and transforming the already dry earth into lifeless dust. Bleached bones and plant husks littered the rocky flatlands, a hellish mass grave that claimed both weak and strong.

The dead earth crunched with each weary step, Sira steadying the large clay pot resting on her head with one hand as she carefully navigated the broken terrain. Her anger had quickly evaporated beneath the twin eyes glaring at her from above, their fiery wrath overwhelming her simmering pride. Get the water and go back. Simple. Easy.

All she had to do was apologize.

Sira swallowed, the bitter thought sliding down her parched throat like sand. To prostrate herself before that haughty kalei and beg for forgiveness… it was humiliating just to contemplate. Of course, there were worse consequences than being forced to draw water from the Well of the Dead during the middle of the day. She was lucky, she tried to tell herself. Lucky to be alive and whole.

The stone well materialized through the veil of heat as Sira drew closer, rows of glaring skulls embedded into its cylindrical frame silently reproaching her. She glanced around, making sure she was alone before setting her water pot on the ground and unsealing the well's lid. Raiders sometimes used wells during their treks across the wastes to ambush the unsuspecting or desperate. Even though it was the middle of the day, she quickly hauled up each sloshing bucket of water to the surface and filled her pot, not wanting to tempt the grim god of fate.

Sira grunted as she twisted the heavy lid shut, steam hissing along its edges with a final tug. She heaved a tired sigh, resting for a short moment before straightening to adjust the hood wrapped around her head. As she bent to pick up the clay pot, now loaded with her precious cargo, a strange shadow caught her eye. Sira squinted, the dancing heat waves obscuring the dark object. She crouched behind the pot, watching and waiting. When nothing happened for several minutes and she couldn't bear the heat weighing down on her any longer, she unsheathed her knife from within her robes and crept forward.

The crimson haze slowly resolved, the air sizzling as Sira kept just out of arm's reach of the yautja lying facedown on the ground. He was armored and wounded, but that's not what unsettled her as she checked for traps. His skin was as black as the frost that blossomed across the desert each night and if it weren't for the heat she would have thought him frozen. Sira crept as close as she dared and gently nudged his leg with the tip of her knife.

Nothing.

Feeling more curious than afraid, she sheathed her blade and touched him, her breath hitching in her throat at how cool it felt. "Who are you?" she whispered.

An unexpected twitch answered her and Sira chirped in surprise. Oh gods. He was alive. She quickly rolled him onto his back, grateful he was small for a male, and looped her arms under his shoulders, grunting as she hefted him up and dragged his limp body back towards the well. Sira was out of breath by time she stumbled next to the clay jar, unceremoniously dropping the unconscious yautja to the ground as she hurried to unseal the well's lid. Unable to separate the bucket from the metal chain, she hauled it out of the well and over to the male. Sira grasped at his featureless mask, cursing when she couldn't find the standard releases that normally rested behind the eyes and beneath the chin. It was almost as if it was fused to his flesh and no amount prying could peel it off. Without water he would die.

She sat back on her heels, realizing she was faced with a choice: save a dying stranger or suffer even more at the hands of the chieftain's first mate. She couldn't drag him and balance the water jar on her head. What would Raika do when she found out?

Sira shielded her eyes and glanced up at the sky. Maybe there was time to to do both. She took several deep gulps of the bitter well water and dumped the rest over the male's body. As long the first mate didn't know she was back, it was possible, she decided as she picked the male up and began the long, hot journey back to the oasis.

By the time she was within sight of the village, Sira was exhausted, the male growing heavier with each step. Twice she had fallen and the second time she'd almost stopped to rest. But to stop was to die. That was the rule of the desert. She growled and pressed on, the mantra of water helping to steady her steps.

When she certain no one had seen her, she dragged him to one of the water mothers' hut. "Ona. Ona!"

The old healer shuffled out from her clay hut, wind chimes and magical wards clattering as she pushed aside the yellow cloth that covered her doorway. "Hush child. I am old, not deaf." She didn't even hesitate when she saw the male Sira was carrying. "Bring him inside."

With several grunts, Sira rolled him into the shallow healing pool. The cool water felt soothing to her aching arms. "Will he live, Ona?"

The healer knelt beside him, prodding his body and wounds. "It's hard to say."

"I couldn't remove his mask to give him water when I was at the well. It sticks to his skin."

Ona's eyes flicked up to meet hers. "The well?"

Sira looked away. "The Well of the Dead."

"Did you drink the cursed water?"

"I… I did. And I poured it on him." Sira hung her head.

"Foolish girl. Where was your water sack?"

"Raika wouldn't let me bring it."

"The first mate? How dare she disturb the spirits of the well. I will have words with her."

"No, please, Ona. I must bring her its water."

"You will do no such thing. The only reason she wants that water is to curse someone."

"But my jar-"

"Belongs to the well. Now help me strip him before the spirits lead his soul into the Otherworld."

Sira rolled up her soaked sleeves and did as she was told. The rest of his body was just as dark, but without the armor he looked even smaller, as if he'd been starving. "How long do you think he was out there?"

"Hours. Days. It won't matter if his spirit does not return." She began to rub salves over his wounds, wrapping them in the sticky, inner skin from a razor cactus. "I sense a restlessness within this one." Ona closed her eyes and placed her hands over his chest, feeling his breath and the beat of his hearts. "Anger. Fear. Loneliness." Her eyes snapped open. "You must leave. You have drank the water of the dead. Go to the oasis and cleanse yourself. Drink only its water and eat nothing for three days. Do not return here until then."

Sira did not argue and quickly left, wondering if she'd done the right thing. Despite the water healer's assertion, she did not feel confident that Raika would forgive her failure.

**(-)**

Sira managed to avoid the first mate for the rest of the evening, hiding herself away in the kitchen and handing off meals to the other slaves. The kitchen was her sanctuary. Here she could lose herself while skinning an animal or roasting nuts. But tonight her nerves felt frayed. Eventually Raika would demand to know why she hadn't arrived with the water and would be furious when she learned that she had returned without it and hid.

Sira thoughts turned to the strange male she'd found in the desert. He was unlike any yautja she'd ever seen, and she'd seen many pass through their port, traders and slaves from all across the eastern continent. Pale, bronze, striped, spotted. But none as completely and utterly dark as him. Ona's status ensured that he wouldn't be kidnapped and sold, but once he left her hut he was on his own.

As soon as Sira finished cleaning, a gentle tap on her shoulder silenced all her thoughts, leaving her filled with a quiet dread. Erefet's worried, green eyes said it all and Sira immediately headed for the main room, anxiously rubbing her hands. _Why do I always mess up? What can't I just keep my mouth shut?_

As soon as she cross the threshold she lowered her knees to the floor and bowed. The scent of perfume filled her mouth and the spices of the evening's meal lingered on her tongue. She was already very hungry.

She waited until she was summoned, a sharp snap allowing her to stand and shuffle quickly towards the center of the room. Although her head was bowed, she could smell Ona beside her, the water healer's scent like the sweet dew of a moonflower. It calmed Sira a little knowing she was here.

"The water healer tells me you found a male in the wastes. I hope you did not bring a raider into our midst, little Sira."

Ona interjected before Sira could find her voice. "Even raiders respect the spirits, Hajara Raika. Besides, I sense no malice in the stranger. He will leave as soon as he awakens."

"Good. We don't need uncivilized foreigners causing trouble while the chief is away. Return to your duties, water healer. Your advice has been most... instructive."

Ona left without even bowing, her staff tapping with each step. When the comforting sound had faded, Sira's fears resurfaced.

"Instructive, indeed…" the hajara growled as soon as Ona was gone. "The eldress tells me you are not allowed to eat for three days because you drank from the well. Is this true?"

"Saa. I did not know about the curse."

Raika clucked. "Of course you didn't."

Sira's hearts thumped in her chest. Something felt wrong. Why wasn't she angrier? Why wasn't she yelling at her and calling her names?

"I'm sorry for not bringing you the water. I-"

"Shh, shh, shh. No need to explain. The healer already did. I'm more interested in your mother at the moment. How is she?"

Sira's skin prickled in fear. Her mother? Why was she asking about her mother? "She's getting better."

"Really? Interesting."

The hajara snapped and a slave brought her a drink. She sipped it slowly, her satisfied sighs only reminding Sira how thirsty she was. "You may return to your duties."

And that was that. No reprimand. No threat. No demand. Sira had never heard the first mate so calm and was so flabbergasted she nearly forgot to bow before she left.

**(-)**

The pain in Sira's stomach was like a knot that tightened with every passing hour, her stomach shrinking into a painful emptiness. Drinking water from the oasis no longer helped - it only served to remind her how hungry she was. But she didn't complain. Things were finally going well for once. The hajara had inexplicably dismissed her failure to retrieve the cursed water - although Sira suspected Raika's sudden increase in appetite was not a coincidence - and her mother actually was feeling better. Warmth had returned to her face and she was able to sit up and eat more than bone broth.

"You need to eat more, nana."

"Oh no, I couldn't."

"You need to get your strength back soon."

Her mother sighed. "I know, I know."

Sira set the half-eaten bowl of food aside, returning with a small jar of water. She watched her mother drink it, worried at how much the illness had drained her once vibrant color. Her face was slightly sunken and her tendrils had begun to fade to gray. For the first time, Sira realized her mother wasn't as young as she used to be.

"I know that look," said her mother.

"I worry about you."

"You're too young to worry."

"Am I?"

Her mother sighed. "No, I suppose not. But you shouldn't anyway." She smiled up at her as she leaned against her pallet. Sira leaned in and brushed her mandibles over her forehead. "I have to go. I'll see you later tonight."

Sira made sure the morning meals were taken care of and then headed straight for the water healer's hut on the west side of the village, eager to end her time of fasting now that the three days had come to an end. Her pace slowed once she entered the gate, unable to keep from staring at the dark, armored yautja who stood outside of the hut, Ona speaking to him in soft tones. His mask was still on, a fact that disappointed Sira slightly. She would've like to have seen the face of the person she'd risked so much for. He barely glanced at her before inclining his head to Ona in thanks for a waterskin. As they passed each other, Sira briefly felt his cool aura radiating around him. His mask had no eye slits, but she could still sense his piercing gaze.

Then he was gone and she knew as little about him as she had the day she had found him. Sira stared after his shadow, slightly miffed. "He could've at least said 'thank you.'"

"Males like him are complicated. It is better this way. To become entangled in that one's destiny would only cause you pain."

"How do you know this?"

"Water is life," Ona replied cryptically. "Now come. We must prepare the final ritual."

The purification rites consisted of breathing steam from ancient river stones that were heated over a small fire and a disgusting, bitter paste that Sira enjoyed more than she should have. She was still very hungry by the end of it.

As they exited the hut and Sira began to thank the eldress, her friend Erefet burst into the small yard.

"Sira! Sira come quick."

"Erefet? What's wrong?"

"It's your mother. Raika's selling her."

"What?!"

Sira took off, racing for the market. Her hearts pounded outside her chest as fear urged her onwards and she pushed through the crowd that had gathered around the slave stage, heading straight for the hajara's palanquin near one of the slaver's booths. Sira stumbled against the booth, startling the booth worker and interrupting Raika. "My mother!" she panted. "Where is my mother?"

Two slave guards pulled her away, one of them shoving her against the ground. The commotion began to attract onlookers, most of whom just laughed.

"Hajara, please, I don't understand." Sira crumpled as a sharp kick cracked against her ribs. "Please," she gasped. "Please don't do this."

The hajara's mocking laughter hurt worse than her bruised ribs. "And why shouldn't I, slow, stupid girl? Your mother is useless to me and you drank cursed water. I can't have you handling my food, much less the shajara's. Your pretty, empty head will be much more suited to a whorehouse, I think."

The guards dragged Sira back to the booth, their sharp claws digging into her jaw and arms as they held her up for the master to view.

"Well, Orus, what do you think?" asked the hajara. "She's young, healthy and obedient… most of the time anyway."

The pudgy male gave Sira a once over. "She'll be worth more than the other one. Take off her hood."

Rough hands tore off her head covering, revealing scarlet dreadlocks that fell past her shoulders. The slaver's eyes widened. "Red hair?"

Sira snarled and tried to run, a punch to her stomach knocking the wind out of her.

"Don't damage her, you idiot!" Orus shouted. "Do you know how much this female's worth? Strip her and get her processed before the other traders see her."

"_Excuse me."_

Everyone stilled and looked up at the unexpected intruder. Sira's eyes widened in surprise. It was the dark yautja.

"_You have my sword. Give it back."_

The guards holding Sira looked at each other. "I thought we killed him?" one of them whispered. They both looked back at him. "This is none of your business, wanderer. Move along."

The masked male stepped closer. "_This is your last chance. Give me my sword or I'll kill you."_

One of the guards snarled and aimed his plasma pistol at him.

"_Your choice._" The masked yautja moved faster than Sira thought possible, knocking the guard's arm aside. The plasma blast fired harmlessly to the side as he whirled, throwing the guard over his shoulder and onto the ground. He ripped the guard's gun from his hand and fired it at the second guard, blasting several steaming holes in the male's chest. Several more guards converged on them and the masked yautja shoved Sira out of the way as he ran to meet them.

Silver flashed in the suns' light and a guard went down screaming, blood pouring from one of his eyes. The masked yautja didn't even pause, stealing the next guard's spear and breaking his leg with a visceral stomp. Sira scrambled away from the frenzied melee, sickened by the pools of steaming blood slowly creeping across the ground towards her. The crowd had now surrounded the fight, roaring with each feint and jab. She could no longer see what was happening. Then the crowd parted and head hurtled straight towards her, leaving bloody skidmarks as it bounced across the sand. Sira barely dodged the gory projectile, the guard's head slamming into the booth wall behind her. The crowd roared again and she could just make out the last guard, a spear rammed straight through his chest.

The entertainment over, the crowd slowly melted away, called back by the street vendors and slave traders. Sira could only stare at the corpses littering the ground, horrified at such efficient brutality. How could one person have done all of this?

The dark yautja went over to one of the dead guards and ripped a knife out from his eye, then walked over to her and offered her its handle. Sira's breath hitched as soon as she saw the bloodstained blade. That was her cooking knife. Had he… had he taken it from her when he'd shoved her?

When she didn't take it he simply tossed it on the ground beside her and turned to face the only guard he'd left alive. The male was on his knees and offering up a sword. The dark yautja snatched it from his hands and unsheathed it, allowing the male to limp away as he studied the blade. It was as black as the nameless warrior and Sira had no doubt that this was the sword he'd been after. It fit him perfectly.

Satisfied, the masked male approached Orus, who was cowering behind his booth. "_I have my sword. Now I want my money. Or I'll kill you next."_ He stabbed the stall for emphasis. "_And don't forget my tools."_

The folds of Orus' neck jiggled as he vigorously nodded. "O-of course, of course. J-just one moment." The slave trader started yelling at several slavers in the back.

Sira rose to her feet, her shaking hands fumbling with her head scarf and bloody knife. Where was her mother? If she could find her and slip away into the crowd, they could… could what? They were slaves. They had nothing.

"Just who do you think you are?" Raika hissed. "This is a legal sale and you have no right to interfere."

"_I have every right. These slavers"_ -the words slid off his tongue like a curse- "_robbed me and left me to die in this godforsaken desert. But since I've ruined your trade, perhaps you'd be willing to sell the two females to me."_

"To you?" The hajara was taken aback by the offer. So was Sira. "You couldn't possibly afford it."

The warrior snatched his money purse from Orus and then tossed it to one of the hajara's palanquin bearers. He then slung a large pack over shoulder. "_That should be more than enough. Now bring me the other female." _

Sira choked back her whimpers as soon as her mother came into view and quickly took off her outer robe to cover her nakedness, worried the stress of the past hour had undone days of healing. Her mother looked very pale and she could barely stand on her own. Sira struggled to hold her upright. The masked yautja -master, she reminded herself- suddenly appeared in front of her and, without a word, scooped up her mother. Incredulous, Sira followed after him, glancing behind them every so often to make sure they weren't being followed and that the hajara hadn't changed her mind.

After a few minutes it became obvious they were headed back to Ona's hut. The few people that were calling on her today took one look at her new master and immediately left. Ona was less than pleased. "You again? I thought I told you not to get involved with this one, Sira. He is trouble." She stamped her staff for emphasis.

Her master ignored the eldress and set Sira's mother in the shade. He then turned to Sira. "_Wait here."_ And once again, he was gone.

Ona gave water to her mother, who was now half-asleep. She noticed Sira anxiously wringing her hands and waved at her to be calm. "She will heal from this. It was not good for her to be out of bed, but she was not under the suns that long." Her mandibles set themselves into two grim lines. "Be careful, Sira. There is something… wrong with the wanderer. He is not all that he appears to be."

"Ona, he saved us. If he hadn't shown up, Raika would've sold me and my mother and who knows what would've happened to us."

Ona sighed. "Saa, I know. But this path you're on is just as dangerous, if not more."

Sira shifted uneasily, the gory fight still seared into her memory. The wanderer was dangerous. But he'd helped them. She growled as she tried to sort through her impressions of the strange yautja she'd saved in the desert. It was like chasing shadows, none of her encounters telling her much other than that he was a warrior of great skill. After long moments of fruitless speculation, she wondered if perhaps the water healer could tell her more. "What do you know of my new master? Did he say where is from or where he is going?"

"The only thing I know of him is what I learned from his body. His scars talk more than his mouth," she huffed. "His hands are that of a crafter and a swordsman. He is accustomed to having few luxuries and has traveled very far. But as to who he is and why he wanders the wastes, I am blind. The waters did not speak to me of these things."

Sira recalled her master's blade. "I saw his sword. It was as black as his skin. I've never seen one like it."

Ona's hiss startled Sira. "A black blade? Are you telling me the wanderer wields a dark blade?"

"I, um… think so."

The eldress grabbed Sira's arm and leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Be careful, Sira. There are two types of people in this world who wield that kind of sword: assassins and those skilled enough to outwit them."

"What are you saying?" asked Sira, but Ona had turned away, muttering cryptic words and leaving Sira with yet more questions than answers.

A short time later, her master returned.

Sira bowed low. "Thank you for saving us, master. Especially my mother. She is still very weak." When he said nothing, she tried to think of something to fill the awkward silence. "I, um… I am Sira. My mother is Kahet. We hope to repay your protection with many years of service."

Her master cleared his throat, his voice tinged with a metallic echo as it transmitted from within his mask. "_You may call me… Tharrak."_

Ona snorted. "'Tharrak' means dark one."

"_It is what I am."_

"And where do you intend to slink off to next?"

"_For now, nowhere."_

Sira straightened, confusion knitting her brows together.

"_We will stay here in…"_ he glanced around at the garden walls covered in prickly ivy. "_Wherever 'here' is."_

'We are in the Oasis of Sahar, at the crossroads of the Red Wastes," Sira clarified.

He grunted. "_Fine."_

"If I may ask, master-"

"_Just Tharrak."_

"-why are we staying?"

"_Because buying you was expensive."_

The short explanation hurt Sira more than she knew it should have. She was just a burden. She'd saved him and he'd been forced to repay that debt. And now, like them, he had nothing.

"_And I used the last of my funds to rent a place. If your mother can walk, we leave now."_

Sira gently woke her mother and helped her stand, the pair slowly following their master to their new home. She was suddenly tired, but she didn't complain. They were free from Raika, they were safe and they were still together. And while their master was definitely strange, he was better than anything the hajara had probably had planned for them. At least, that's what she hoped.


	2. A Wager

**Pronunciation Guide:**

Djajin - JYAH-jin - a strategy game

Iyan - ee-YAHN - no, formal

Kahet - kah-HEHT - Sira's mother

Saa - SAA - yes

Safya - SAAFF-yah - the shajara's second wife

Shadat - shah-DAHT

Yan - YAHN - no, informal

* * *

**A Wager**

* * *

The crooked door whined as her master —Tharrak— pushed it open, dust and bugs skittering across the floor as the harsh light of day poured into the cluttered, dingy room. He entered first, carefully navigating down the three steps and scanning every angle and corner before investigating each side room. _He's like a wild animal, _thought Sira as she slowly helped her mother down the narrow stone stairs. She'd stopped trembling, weary determination pushing her forward, the same determination Sira had witnessed as child no matter how difficult life became. Leaving her mother to rest, Sira waited for her master at the center of the room. From what she'd observed, he preferred giving orders rather than being pampered and waited on. He was a wanderer and was used to being in control and deciding things for himself. She had quickly realized that to best serve him she had to be an extension of him, like the tools in his pack. Simple. Easy. The complete opposite of the hajara, who enjoyed playing mind games with her slaves.

When he was satisfied with his inspection, Tharrak returned to the main room, dropping his pack onto the floor. His metallic voice reverberated from within his mask. "_Clean this place up. I will return by first sunset." _

Sira bowed, listening as her master slipped away again, the only indication that he was gone a creak of the door and a flash of light. When she looked up, she sighed. This place had seen better days. She grimaced as a bug scuttered along the far wall and hid behind some dusty clay pots. She hated bugs. Sira shuddered and quickly searched for an old cloth and some oil — water was too precious to waste on dirty floors. She swept the sand and dead insects into a large pile at the center of the room, then proceeded to the other rooms. After dumping the waste, Sira sorted the furniture, chopping what couldn't be salvaged into kindling and reorganizing what was left. Thankfully the beds were more or less intact. She couldn't say the same for the bedding and blankets though.

"Sira, let me help," said her mother as she'd returned from beating the dust from their worn threads outside. "I can at least patch the blankets."

Sira poked her finger through a hole, grimacing. She was terrible at sewing. "We don't have any needle or thread, nana."

"Check the pack."

"But—"

"There's a sewing kit tucked in the side. Look."

Sira hesitated as she crouched by the master's large travel pack, fearful of violating what was his. The black leather was worn and cracked, reminding her of the numerous scars that criss-crossed her master's body. Her fingers traced the torn edges until they came to the sewing kit. She handed it and the folded blankets to her mother, reminding her to take it easy.

"Don't worry about me," she said. "Besides, I'm tired of resting. I can't let you do all the work."

Sira didn't contradict her even though she could see the dark circles beneath her mother's eyes and the trembling in her hands as she threaded the needle. "I'm going to get some water. I'll be right back."

The line to the pump was long and cleaning out the house had taken more time than she'd anticipated, the suns, Feiren and Iren, setting fast. When she finally made it back, her hearts jumped into her throat. Tharrak had returned. And he was standing over her mother, who had passed out and and was leaning against the wall, the first blanket she'd been working on still in her lap. What would he do? Was he angry?

Her master looked up at her before turning away from her mother, picking up his pack and setting it beside the low table in the middle of the room. Sira took a deep breath, reminding herself that Tharrak was not Raika, and placed the water jar in the corner kitchen. Gently, she woke her mother and then sat beside her, the two of them quietly patching the blankets together while their master unpacked his tools. Sira tried to focus, but the strange objects he kept pulling from his pack were far more interesting than stitches. By the time she was done with her first hole she had pricked her finger several times. She swallowed her frustrated growl only for it to morph into a rumble that curled loudly through her stomach. And that's when Sira remembered she hadn't eaten anything in the last three days.

Embarrassed, she tried to focus on her stitching, only for her stomach to growl again. Blood rushed to her cheeks and forehead, but she dared not look up.

With a sigh, Tharrak rose and left, not even bothering to give them any orders. It was nightfall when he returned, several freshly skinned creatures as long as Sira's forearm slung over his shoulder. She gladly pushed away the blanket she'd been working on and took them from him, salivating at the thought of roasted meat. Even though she'd prepared meals for the shajara and his family, she'd never really got to taste any of it. If only she had some spices, she thought as she skewered one of the animals and lowered the rest into the cooling chamber dug below the house. Sira slowly turned the spit until blood and juices dripped from its moist flesh, the droplets spattering against the hot coals below, hissing angrily as they infused the hazy smoke with a tantalizing aroma.

She waited as long as she could before unhooking the spit, smothering the coals with a metal lid. Even though her stomach clenched in agony, she made sure to serve Tharrak first. But to her surprise, he waved her away.

"Are... are you sure?"

His blank, mouthless mask stared up at her. _"Saa."_

Feeling awkward, she sat down with her mother to eat, unused to having so much and, on top of that, eating it all in front of their new master.

By the end of the meal, the creature's bones filled the large bowl set between them and Sira was so full she felt nauseous. Her mother had gnawed on a couple plump legs, but Sira knew she was only making an effort to eat more for her sake. They were both jolted from their silent reverie by Tharrak clearing his throat.

"_Kahet, prepare the beds. Sira…" _He pointed to the space in front of the low table.

Both moved moved quickly and quietly, Sira settling into place and sitting on her feet with her head bowed.

"_First rule: no more bowing."_

Flushing, she raised her head, still unnerved by the smooth silver mask staring back at her, unsure of where to look.

"_I'm not used to having to order others around, so the less I have to do it the better off you are. I don't care about the rest of the house, but the workshop must stay clean, do you understand?"_

Sira nodded, her hearts pounding against her ribs. Cleaning the workshop had taken most of the day and even then she hadn't been satisfied.

"_My needs are simple: I keep a particular… schedule. I prefer not to eat for several days _—_ an old habit. After fasting, I will require a large meal. Then, I will sleep for a full day, sometimes longer," _he said. "_In between these times, you will assist me with customers, orders and deliveries. I intend to get out of this miserable place as soon as possible."_

Sira gripped the folds of her robes with clenched fists, her question stuck in her throat.

"_Second rule: speak your mind. I may own you, but I do not think of you as a slave. You saved my life after all."_

Sira was so shocked she almost forgot her question. "I-It was nothing. I mean… I wasn't thinking." She shook her head to try and clear it. "What I meant was, what will you be making?"

"_Masks."_

"Masks?"

"_I am a mask maker. This isn't the most ideal place for my kind of business, but hopefully something can be negotiated with the mining company."_

_A mask maker_, silently echoed Sira. She glanced down at all the strange tools and mechanical parts laid out across the table, at a loss as to their purpose and function. Now that she thought about it, the strange machines in the back of the house made more sense. This place had been abandoned for so long she'd forgotten a mask maker used to work in Sahar at one point. Mask makers were rare this far out in the wastes, their kind preferring to keep near the cities and the larger clans. It was odd then, she thought as she studied Tharrak's mask, that it had no ornamentation. Such blank masks were sometimes worn by slaves in the West. Was he a runaway slave? Why did he never take it off?

Sira realized she was staring and quickly excused herself, suddenly feeling exhausted and overwhelmed. It had been a long day, far longer than she'd thought possible. She made sure her mother was comfortable before laying on the floor, the bed only large enough for a single person. The second, larger bed had been moved into Tharrak's room, along with most of the blankets. Sira shivered herself to sleep, cold and anxious about what tomorrow would bring.

** (-) **

Sira wrung her hands, eager to get the new shipment to Tharrak as soon as possible. Since he didn't sleep or eat, he worked endlessly, night and day. Each mask seemed incredibly complex, but he completed them faster than the materials could be shipped in. They were expensive and they'd used up almost everything the mine masters had paid in advance. But at the rate Tharrak was going, the first order would be completed by the end of the week.

What was even more amazing was the number of customers that had started trickling in once word had spread that a mask maker was back in town. Repairs were the most common order: cracked lenses, visual filters malfunctioning, clogged respirators. The list went on and on. And Tharrak fixed them all with breathtaking speed. With luck, mercenaries would start to drop by. Their masks were the most complex and therefore the most expensive to fix.

"Sira?!"

When she turned around, she smiled. "Erefet!"

"I didn't think I'd see you again. The other girls said that a black warrior took out a dozen slavers and stole you! Raika was so angry when she returned I feared the worst."

Sira shook her head. "Yan, the warrior paid for us. He's the new town mask maker."

Erefet's eyes widened. "The new mask maker is _him_?"

"Saa. I'm getting supplies for him right now."

Erefet pouted and pulled on her arm. "I miss your food. Shadat is good but she just doesn't have your creative spark."

Sira flushed and looked away. "That's not true. I'm not that good… Besides, you're just saying that because I'm not there to do your chores."

Erefet laughed. "You're so modest, Sira. Next you'll be saying you're ugly." She waved as she hurried away. "Hopefully, we'll run into each other again soon."

Sira waved, her smile falling as she tried to understand what her friend meant. She wasn't ugly, but she wasn't pretty… was she? She tugged on the edge of her head wrap, wincing as she recalled the guards ripping it off when she tried to stop her mother from being sold. Her mother had always told her to keep it covered. That if people saw it they would hurt her or take her away. Whenever she asked why, her mother would go quiet, the fear in her eyes palpable.

Sighing, Sira grabbed the latest box of supplies and quickly made her way back to the house on the other side of the oasis. She was breathing heavily by the time she returned. "I'm back!" she said as she fought with the crooked door, the rusty hinges protesting more than usual as she shoved it open. "Tharrak, I—" Sira froze, fear prickling across the back of her neck and shoulders. Across the table from her master, lounging on silk cushions, was the hajara.

"Little Sira," she purred, her dark smile sending shivers through her arms.

Sira misjudged the next step and slipped, tumbling to the floor in an undignified heap, the large package crashing to the floor next to her. Raika's laughter only added to her humiliation and she hurriedly righted the box, praying to the Water Goddess that nothing had been damaged.

"How I miss your antics," Raika crooned. "But I'm no longer your master and can't punish you for such foolishness." She leaned on the table, gazing up at Tharrak, who had to say a single word or even glance in Sira's direction.

Sira looked away, her chest tightening with shame. She clamped her mandibles shut and limped away with the box, placing it in the back room. It didn't matter what she felt, she told herself as she unpacked the supplies and organized them. As long as she was useful and obeyed.

In the other room, Sira could hear her master and the hajara continue their negotiations.

"My mate, the shajara, will soon return from a long campaign in the south, the rebellion finally broken. When he returns, I would like to present him with a special gift, a mask worthy of such a great and noble leader."

"_It would be an honor to create such a gift. But since I am unable to measure his face, my creation would be less than worthy."_

"That is why I have brought you one of his old masks." She snapped her fingers and Sira heard one of her slave-guards shuffle over to Tharrak.

"_This will do as a reference. But I will need more than this."_

Raika scoffed. "Money is of little consequence."

"_Iyan. I must understand the warrior I am making this for. What is he like? What are his strengths, his desires, his spirit? The mask must be an extension of himself, to reveal and emphasize what is hidden beneath flesh and blood."_

The interview lasted a long time, longer than any other Sira had witnessed. When the hajara finally left, she emerged from the back room.

"_Is anything broken?" _asked Tharrak as he walked past.

"I-Iyan. The packaging protected it."

"_Good."_

His next words stopped her from leaving.

"_What do you think of the shajara?"_

What did she think? What did it matter what she thought? "He's… scary. But he's not cruel. Respect and honor are important to him. He's rarely home though, always traveling and fighting. I think he finds the oasis boring."

Tharrak considered her answer, rubbing the chin of mask.

"_Why did the hajara want the cursed water?"_

Sira wracked her memories. "It wasn't to poison him. There were... whispers that she was trying to hurt Safya, the shajara's second mate. Raika hasn't been able to conceive and hates the shajara's concubines and their children. But now that Safya is pregnant, Raika is worried she'll bear a son and that the shajara will name him his heir."

"_I see." _He looked away from the new supplies he'd been studying, setting his eyeless gaze on her. "_Are you hurt?"_

Sira looked away, unable to meet his stare. "Iyan."

He nodded and looked away.

Just before she left he spoke again. "_Tonight I wish to eat. Use the money we have left to buy food."_

Sira stopped herself from bowing, excitement filling her. "Saa. What would you like?"

He shrugged. "_Whatever you make."_

Sira rushed to the market, wishing she'd thought to buy food earlier this morning. This late in the afternoon she'd be force to sort through the leftovers. Her master had to be starving after going so long without eating. All he consumed was tea or water whenever her mother insisted on it, never turning her down.

She stretched the money as far as it could go, lugging several pouches worth of food back by first sunset, Feiren's half-open eye panting the sky a warm orange. Thankfully, her mother had started heating the oven and stove, the coals burning bright and hot. Soon, the house was filled the scent of spices and meat, and Sira let the day's worries fall away as she slipped into the rhythm of cooking, delighting in the challenge of such a large meal for a new person. One by one, the dishes made their way to the table, Tharrak wandering in to watch them as she finished.

Sira forced her mother to sit and eat something, preferring to clean everything before she joined them at the table. As Tharrak took his place, she couldn't help but sneak glances at him, eager to see the face of the male she'd saved. With a hiss, the mask decompressed, a thin slit appearing across his face. To her great shock and annoyance, he only tugged off the bottom half, the top half remaining clamped over his eyes and scalp. She grumbled as she cleaned one of the cutting boards, knowing she shouldn't be so upset. His mask was like her headscarf — they both had something to hide, something they were ashamed of. The thought gave her pause. Perhaps he was deformed or scarred in some way, instead of scared someone might recognize him?

When she looked back, she chirped in shock, her master practically shoveling food between his mandibles, barely pausing to breathe. He was usually so reserved. _Well, at least he likes it_, she thought happily as she continued to wash.

Later, Sira nibbled on a few pieces of meat, in awe at how much Tharrak managed to consume in one bite, like an animal that didn't know when its next meal would be. His normally sunken stomach was becoming distended and in less than an hour, he'd eaten everything. She was secretly glad she had set aside a few things for later meals.

Tharrak leaned back on his hands and groaned.

"Are you alright?" Sira hoped he wasn't going to be sick.

"_Saa. Best food I've had in years."_

Pride swelled through her, its warmth filling her chest and flushing her cheeks. She quickly moved to clear the table before she said something embarrassing and ruined the moment. With her mother's help, she cleaned the plates and bowls with damp rags and rough bristles, the warmed water soaking into her aching joints. But cleaning didn't distract her the way it normally did. All she could think of was Tharrak. He was her master but he didn't want to be. Cold and silent. Warm and honest. How could someone so dark and brutal one moment seem so benign the next?

By the time they were finished, he had disappeared and her mother excused herself to sleep. She was much better than a week ago, decided Sira as she studied her face. She even seemed slightly happy.

Her mother noticed her staring. "What?"

"You seem better."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I feel so useless around you two."

"Useless? You're the only reason we have any blankets to keep warm at night." Sira hadn't even managed to finish one blanket, her fingertips still sore after her fruitless efforts.

Her mother gave a weak smile. "I suppose it's something." She yawned and slowly stood to her feet. "Are you coming to bed?"

Sira shook her head. "I'm not tired yet."

Her mother brushed her mandibles over her forehead and slowly made her way to their room, the door clicking quietly shut behind her.

Sira poked the small fire in the hearth to let it breathe, staring into its dancing flames as she sipped hot tea. The cold night had begun to press against the walls, trying in vain to steal the heat absorbed by the warming stones built into the walls and floor.

Unexpectedly, Tharrak returned from his room carrying a small wooden box. He set it in the middle of the table, groaning heavily as he sat down. Sira stared at the strange box, cocking her head to the side as she studied the foreign design. "What is it?"

"_Djajin. It is a strategy game. Do you play?"_

Sira shook her head. "Yan, but I have watched others."

He opened the box, pulling out a soft pouch before flipping it over.

"_Metal or wood?"_

"Wood."

"_Interesting." _He set up the board, Sira racking her brain as she tried to remember all the rules. Strategy had never been her strong suit. It all smacked of deception and manipulation. Under Raika, every day had felt like a game of djajin, her metal mind crushing the wooden will of her servants.

"_Would you care to make a wager?"_

Sira squinted. "What kind of wager?"

"_If you win, you get to sleep in my bed and I have to sleep on the floor."_

"Sleep on the floor?!"

He shrugged. "_I've slept on worse."_

"And what happens if you win? Do I have to sleep outside?"

Tharrak chuckled. It was the first time she'd ever heard him as anything other than serious. "_Yan. You would freeze to death and my stomach won't allow it."_

Sira smiled as she realized he was only teasing her.

"_If I win, you share my bed and keep me warm while I sleep."_

Her smile melted. Wait… what?

Tharrak moved one of his metal tokens forward, the gleaming piece snapping against the board. "_Remember, a bet's only a bet if you agree to it."_

Sira stared the board, trying to collect her thoughts. If they played, she would lose. It wasn't a question of whether she accepted the bet, but whether she would accept her master's offer. A part of her told her to deny him, to simply play the game and let that be the end of it. Besides, she could always buy him more blankets, even ones that absorbed heat during the day and stayed warm at night. What Tharrak was proposing… did it mean anything to him? Sira looked at his face, but as always could see nothing. No hints. No clues.

"_Something wrong?"_

"I'm just confused. Why are you asking this of me?"

Tharrak rubbed a hand behind his neck. "_I know that you are sleeping on the floor and… and I need you well-rested."_

Even Sira, naive as she was, could see it wasn't the real reason. It was true, the floor was uncomfortable and dirty and crawling with hideously disgusting sand bugs — a particularly ugly one had jumped on her face the other night — but why ask in such a roundabout way? Sira frowned, suddenly realizing his offer to get away from the things that skittered in the night was slowly becoming more appealing with each passing second.

She looked him over, noting the taut cords of muscle wrapped around his gaunt frame. He had filled out a little now that he had eaten, but his dark flesh was as cool as ever, absorbing heat like a dead star. Sira could only imagine how cold he must be at night.

Her cheeks warmed when she accidentally glanced below his waist and she desperately looked for something else to focus on. As she locked eyes on his mask, she suddenly had an idea.

"I want to alter the bet."

He cocked his head. "_How?"_

"If you win, I will share your bed. But if I win, you must take off your mask. All of it."

A low growl rolled up Tharrak's chest and Sira feared she'd crossed a line, but she pressed on. "Also, the bet will reset and we must play djajin each time you decide to sleep."

There was a long pause as he considered her offer, glancing between her and the board. Sira tried to appear confident in her offer even as her hands nervously gripped the folds of her robes. When he finally answered her, she could barely hear his strained whisper. "_I will allow this. It is only fair."_

Sira released the breath she'd been holding, her hearts thumping inside her chest as she chose a token and slowly pushed it forward. "Then I accept your challenge."

They fell into a tense silence, Sira trying to suppress her anxiety and concentrate on her moves. Why had he asked this of her? What did it mean? Regret came swiftly as she realized she was outmatched in every way. Tharrak didn't just know how to play, he was practically a master, his pieces dancing around her clumsy strikes.

In short order, her wooden army lay decimated beside the board and before she knew it, the game was over. The two of them sat in silence, staring at the board, metal tokens gleaming in the dancing firelight. Then Sira took a deep breath and stood first. "I'll go prepare your bed."

She could hear Tharrak scraping the pieces into the pouch as she nervously straightened the rest of the room even though everything was as pristine as the day she had first cleaned it. Sira undid the tightly folded blankets laid out on the foot of the large bed and then took off her outer robe, shivering as its warmth fell away. With trembling hands, she started to pull off her under-robe, but Tharrak stopped her, his hand gently stilling hers before letting go. She slid into the bed after him, gingerly pressing against his back and wrapping an arm around his waist.

Sira remained frozen like that until she sensed his breathing deepen. This wasn't so bad, she thought. Definitely better than the floor. Yet despite the minutes ticking away, she found herself unable to give in to unconsciousness, hyper-aware of the male pressed against her hips. His cool skin was finally warming up and she flushed as the urge to press him closer against her body flared between her legs. Easing away from him, Sira slowly rolled over, pressing her back against his, ashamed of her thoughts. _You are a slave, _she reminded herself. _And he is a wanderer. One day he will leave._

* * *

_Thanks for the reviews and follows! It feels good to be back in the AvP community after being on hiatus for so long. I'll try to get Chapter 3 up by next week :)_


	3. A Bounty

**Thank you for your patience! Summer is a very busy time for me. I wish I could say with certainty when chapter four is going up but it's being difficult. For now, enjoy chapter three :)**

* * *

**Pronunciation Guide**

**chrovauk - KROH-vawk - **a large reptilian mount that possesses thick, armored skin and a long tail

**khiral - KIH-raal -** a small, crepuscular desert creature covered in armored scales - it is often the symbol of the trickster god of luck

**lahesa - lah-HEY-sah** **-** strips of meat usually marinated and wrapped in the baked skin of a tuber grown in irrigated fields around the oasis

**naxa - NAA-ksaa -** an orange-yellow fruit

**Sebek - seh-BEK**

**Tika - TEE-kah**

* * *

**A Bounty**

* * *

Sira slowly woke, comfortable within her warm cocoon of thick blankets. She drifted, knowing she shouldn't close her eyes, but all she needed was just a few more moments…

Tharrak stirred next to her, rousing Sira into action. She peeked over her shoulder, searching for his silhouette in the cool darkness. Tharrak typically slept a day or more, dead to the world until he awoke and began his three-day work cycle once more. Shivering, she slipped out from under the covers and into her now familiar routine.

Light the fire.

Make the tea and lahesa.

Pack the masks.

The two firestones cracked as she snapped them together, tiny sparks raining on the kindling until it caught fire. As the the tiny flames grew, she piled on sticks and larger pieces of wood until they melted into hot, shimmering coals. Satisfied, she closed the oven door and set a pot of water on to boil. The meat she pulled from the cellar hatch, the jar packed with blood, alcohol and spices to flavor the long strips of raw flesh. She laid several pieces down, making extra for her mother when she awoke.

While the meat sizzled, she picked her favorite masks off the wall, wrapping them in heavy silks and securing them within her satchel. More masks decorated the parts of the walls not covered by the deep orange cloth draped about the room, the fabric concealing the kitchen, hallway and workshop entryways. Fierce, mechanical, proud, somber. Black, oval eyes of warriors, slaves and gods stared unflinchingly back at her in the firelight. It always amazed her at how Tharrak could evoke so much of a person in a thing which concealed their face.

Sira checked her timepiece, the red triangle blinking with the symbol for dawn. Although it was still chilly, she opened the door to let the air circulate through the house, pink light spilling down the stairs and across the new wooden table in the center of the main room.

As if on cue, the stray khiral she'd named Tika appeared in the doorway, chirping as it rubbed itself against the doorframe and threshold.

"Good morning, Tika," Sira whispered. "Hungry?" She set some of the dried meat leftover from the night before on the counter, smiling as the scaly creature leapt up and began devouring the small meal.

When the tea turned a bright gold, she set the pot aside and poured herself a large cup, sighing as the brew warmed her hands and stomach. From where she sat, Feiren's half-open eye had just begun to peek over the rooftops, his stern gaze melting the patches of frost clinging to the ground and trees. Sira liked this time of day, alone with nothing but the sound of the wind and dew birds as they flitted from branch to branch.

When her tea was finished, she packed some lahesa and naxa for her midday meal, and quickly left, shooing Tika out before she closed the grumbling door. The khiral followed her until she reached the market's edge, disappearing down an alleyway to avoid the crowd of yautja beginning to gather.

The market had been built on the eastern side of the oasis to take advantage of the suns' rising. As the day brightened and the heat grew, large palm trees sheltered the avenue, their wide-brimmed leaves perfectly shading both vendor and customer alike. Sira settled into her spot, the old booth trembling as she laid out a soft pallet across its worn, sandy surface. She unwrapped each mask and carefully placed it on a holder to prop it upright.

Then she waited.

Hours passed and the crowds grew thicker; slaves, traders, herders, children and others jostling for space beneath the shade as the day grew hotter. Sira fanned herself, smiling at those who paused to look. Most who stopped by were just curious, having no use or money for such extravagance. Masks were for warriors, highborns and slaves of the wealthy. Some days, there were no customers. Today felt like one of those days.

Sira absently petted Tika, the scaly creature sniffing about for a snack. She clicked at the khiral for trying to raid her lunch, when a shadow fell across her. Sira stood, ignoring the greedy chirps coming from within her pack. "Oh, can I help you?"

The warrior stared down at her, barely glancing at the masks on display. "Who made these?"

"My master, Tharrak," she replied proudly. "He is the finest mask maker in all of the Red Wastes. He can repair and update any mask. Even create you a new mask in just two days."

The warrior's own mask seemed well oiled and cared for, with ribbed cheeks and outer crests framing a mechanical muzzle, foreign sigils etched here and there. "How long has he been here in Sahar?" he asked, his deep voice like the thunder of an oncoming sandstorm.

"Almost a season." Sira glanced at his arms, his bronze skin boasting as many scars as stripes. "Um, have you met him somewhere else?"

"Iyan, but I have heard of him. I have much respect for his… craft."

Darkness suddenly swept over the marketplace, the roar of ship engines drowning out all sound and kicking up thick clouds of sand. When Sira lowered her arms, the stranger was gone. Rays of light filtering through the broad palm leaves flickered and danced as smaller vessels trailed the lead ship, an excited murmur filled the air in their wake. Sira did not waste another moment. She jumped to her feet and quickly packed up the display masks, other stalls quickly shuttering their windows or pushing their carts towards the center of the oasis.

The shajara and his warband had returned.

She rushed home, dancing through the gawking river of yautja beginning to stream towards the pyramid in the distance. Families would soon be reunited or broken, the musks of anticipation and nervousness filling her mouth as she hurried forward.

The door shrieked as she slammed it open, startling her mother. "Sira, what is going on?"

"The shajara is back, nana." She dropped the bag by her mother's side. "Please, put these up for me. Tharrak told me to wake him as soon as he came back."

"Of course," she answered, her words fading as Sira rushed down the hall.

She slowed as she approached the door, pausing before gently pushing it open.

Tharrak had managed to bury himself in the middle of the bed, the blankets twisted and piled high. _If he'd just let me get him a sun blanket,_ she thought as she sat on the edge of the bed. Sira shook him, whispering his name. "Tharrak… Tharrak."

A low growl emanated from within.

"Tharrak?" She tried peeling back the layers, but he rolled over, his grasp irontight.

Looks like she would have to do it the hard way.

She crawled to the other side of the bed, pressed her feet against the warm stone wall and shoved him off in one solid push. He landed with a soft, undignified thud.

"Nnnnn…"

"Tharrak, you must get up."

His response came as an incoherent rattle, but he did get up, much to Sira's relief. "You're an evil female," he grumbled.

Sira imagined he was glaring at her through his mask and smirked. "Yak'sallah, but you said to wake you if the shajara returned while you're sleeping."

He yawned. "Shajara?"

"Saa, you said you wanted to see him, remember?"

Tharrak sighed, rubbing his face and mask. "I guess I did." He untangled himself from the nest he'd created, waving Sira away before she could start fussing over his appearance. "Just a robe. I don't plan on meeting anyone today."

The crowds were thick by the time they arrived at the docking area, all eyes searching for familiar faces as Saharian warriors began disembarking from their vessels. Some carried sacks of loot and heads, others were followed by slaves carrying chest of tribute, stolen mates and highborn hostages. More warriors followed, all blooded with the scars to prove their valor. Water priests poured bowls of blessed water onto their heads as they passed by.

Sira craned her neck as a great roar drowned out the celebrations, barely catching a glimpse of the shajara as he descended down the ship's ramp, his golden, ceremonial armor glittering in the afternoon light. A purple cape fell from from his shoulders and over his fierce mount, battle scars covering what could be seen of the armored chrovauk's thick hide. Like a wave, the crowd prostrated themselves as he passed by.

Sira couldn't resist stealing another glimpse after bowing. He sat straight and tall, never glancing one way or the other, his gaze firmly fixed on the pyramids in the distance. One hand loosely gripped the reins, the other planted firmly on his hip, his bearing proud and aloof. She returned her gaze to the shadowed sand and recalled the brief moments she'd been allowed in his presence. She'd been so afraid she'd kept her gaze floor-bound, the corners of her eyes hinting at an imposing yautja with golden eyes and and stern mandibles that never smiled.

Eventually the crowd rose, the scent of excitement replaced with solemnity as the shajara faded from sight. Sira turned her gaze back to the ships, wondering how many had perished this time. Slowly, the Black Guard, the shajara's personal bodyguards and elite soldiers, descended four at a time. They carried down the dead, the fire priests waving incense over their lifeless bodies as they passed by. The water priests prayed, but kept their distance. Water was life. Only fire could keep the dead's spirit's from returning.

Once the dead and the mourners had passed, the crowds surged towards the pyramids to hear the words of the shajara, carrying Sira and Tharrak with them. By the time they arrived, they were in the back, but the speaker drones floating silently above the crowd ensured everyone could hear the shajara's words. Sira could barely see him as he approached the balcony edge, a golden speck against the white stone.

"People of Sahar, the war with the southern tribes is over." The crowd roared its approval. "Together, with the Sons of Feiren, the Sand Walker and the Water Singer clans we showed our enemies the might and resolve of the desert tribes. Now it is your turn to show them and our warriors honor. When the greatest of the three moons rises full, the celebration begins!"

The crowd roared again, chanting the shajara's name over and over until it was replaced with cries of other names as families reunited with sons, brothers and fathers. Tharrak touched Sira's shoulder to let her know it was time to leave. "_I've seen enough. Come."_ Sira hurried after him, squeezing her arms against her body as she navigated the dense crowd, muttering apologies as she hurried after him. Once free of the throng, the streets were unusually peaceful, only slaves or the elderly peering from the shade towards the rumble rising from the pyramids. The two suns had climbed higher in the sky, their heat baking the golden sand crunching beneath their sandalled feet.

"_That was shorter than I expected."_

"He doesn't say much… like you."

Tharrak glanced down at her and Sira looked away, embarrassed by her boldness.

"_We have much work to do then. I imagine many warriors will come to us seeking repairs."_

"And masks for the festival," Sira reminded him. She wondered if she would have to return to the market today. She hoped not. "By the way, a warrior stopped by the stall this morning."

"_Mmhm,"_ acknowledged Tharrak. He continued to stride forward, his tired steps now full of purpose and Sira quickened her pace to keep up. "He asked about you and seemed very interested in your work. It seemed like he knew you."

Tharrak's steps slowed. "_What did he look like?"_

"It was hard to tell since he wore a mask, but he sounded like he was from the west. His arms were covered in stripes and scars."

He stopped. "_You're sure?"_ He was looking straight at her. She didn't need him to take off his mask to understand he was concerned.

"I-I'm certain. He was the only one who stopped by this morning."

He looked back the way they had come and then down the street, his left hand pushing aside his robe and grabbing the top of his sword's sheath, the black leather like a dark stain against his hip. "_Stay close,"_ he said. "_Don't look anywhere except straight ahead."_

Sira balled her shaking hands into fists and scampered close behind, unable to keep her eyes from darting from shadow to shadow. The winding streets now seemed ominous, every branching alley hiding a potential threat. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but kept her questions to herself.

A sharp whistle pierced the hot air, the sound barely registering before Tharrak shoved her to the ground. There was a sickening thud, a strangled grunt of pain and the scent of fresh blood. Sira whipped her head around, staring up in disbelief.

A long black arrow protruding from Tharrak's side, and he struggled to stay on his feet. He gripped the base of the shaft and snarled as he snapped it off, leaving the rest of the arrow buried in his flesh. Soundlessly, he slid his sword from his sheath and put himself between her and their unseen attacker.

He did not make them wait, the striped male Sira had met earlier uncloaking himself as he leapt down from a rooftop, his hiding place now clear: an exhaust pipe, the dancing heat waves aiding his camouflage. The warrior leisurely notched another arrow in his bow as he approached them. "I was surprised to hear you'd taken up residence in such a small city. To broadcast your presence was very… unwise." His shoulder cannon swiveled to life, whining as it heated up and focused on its target. He sauntered towards them, stopping several paces away and observing each of them in turn. When his eyes fell on her, Sira bared her fangs, hoping she looked braver than she felt. It did not seem to impress the warrior. "If you had let her die, you might have gained the advantage."

"_You talk too much."_ Tharrak wobbled as he spoke and Sira could tell he was straining to hold up his sword. His thin, muscular frame was slick with sweat and his breathing was labored.

"Just passing the time. It would be rude to interrupt the poison. Give it a few more seconds."

_Poison! _Sira's mind raced as she looked from the warrior to Tharrak and back. Iyan. It wasn't true.

"_Why not just kill me now?"_ Tharrak growled as he edged forward, his limbs shaking.

The warrior stepped back, maintaining the distance between them. "The bounty is double if I bring you in alive."

"_Ever wonder... why it's so high?" _he rasped.

"Oh, I know all about your reputation, which is only confirmed by the fact that you've somehow managed to withstand the poison for this long, and for that you have my admiration. But don't think it will change my mind. Unfortunately for you, you're worth too much."

Iyan! She would not let him take Tharrak away. Sira scrambled to her feet, startling both of them as she lunged forward. "Run Tharrak!"

The striped warrior's cannon swiveled towards her, a curse crackling from his mask as a black blur flashed by her. The gun swiveled away from her and fired.

White, hot plasma screamed passed Tharrak as he slashed his foe across the chest. He whirled, sidestepping around the warrior and cleaving the shoulder cannon in two, the downward stroke slicing the hunter's arm clean off. The warrior howled, bright blood pumping from his stump. Dropping his bow, he ripped out a knife. Tharrak easily parried the clumsy attack and kicked the warrior away.

Sira panted as she pushed herself up, sand caking her face and arms. The world had become unbearably bright and there was a strange ringing in her head. A silver flash caught her eye, but her tongue was stuck to the back of her throat, numb and unresponsive. _Watch out!_

The ground exploded around Tharrak, shuriken bullets punching through sand and flesh. He stumbled into an adjacent alley way, a hail of metal kicking up sand and shattering stone just behind him. Despite the pain and the poison numbing his senses, he scrambled to his feet, his mask pinpointing the origin of the shots. Straight ahead, two buildings down.

He ran through the twisting streets, shoving past curious onlookers. When the shots ceased, he hauled himself up a wall, trembling limbs dragging him onto the flat rooftop. He staggered as he rose, firing several shots as he closed in from behind. The gunner whirled, shurikens screaming through the air around him, but his aim was wide and panicked. Tharrak leapt onto the roof, the gunner ducking as away as several more bullets whizzed towards him, Tharrak's shot ripping into stone. He vaulted over the hunter's hiding spot, slashing at his head with his sword as he twisted and leapt over him. The gunner batted it away with his weapon, plasma cannon shots chasing after Tharrak as he rolled away. A metal dart from his wrist gun disabled the cannon. Cursing, the hunter leapt to his feet and dropped his gun, a glaive appearing in his hands. Tharrak charged and the two danced, sparks flashing as their weapons clashed. The gunner pushed him towards the edge, forcing him to parry blow after blow, Tharrak unable to get close enough with his shorter weapon. Seeing his advantage, the hunter lunged, the glaive biting deep into his thigh.

However, the strike brought him close enough for Tharrak to drop his sword and grab the glaive just below the blade by the hilt, keeping the gunner from withdrawing to attack to again. He quickly aimed his wrist gun at his chest, several black darts puncturing the gunner's hearts and lungs. With a strangled cry, he stumbled back, hands clutching at his wounds. Before he could reach for his pistol, Tharrak flipped the glaive around and charged. He roared as he shoved the blade through the gunner's chest and forced him over the edge of the roof. He landed on the street below with a heavy thud.

Tharrak shuddered as the poison continued to burn through his veins, the urge to retch constricting his aching throat as he scanned the horizon. Bounty hunters always worked in groups three. Where was the third?

"Tharrak!"

His hearts thundered. Sira. He grabbed his sword and raced to the edge of the roof to look down the street, but was instead greeted by a shower of plasma bolts. He threw himself to the ground, his skin boiling as superheated air thundered around him. Deafened and disoriented, he fell into the room below, the hatch destroyed during the mayhem.

He groaned, unsure if he'd lost consciousness or not. Through the haze of smoke and pain, Tharrak heard a snarl. A blade flashed towards him and he rolled away without thinking. He struggled to stand, parrying away his would-be-killer's desperate strikes. A bullet to the knee distracted him long enough for his blade to slice open his throat. The room spun as he searched for more threats. Were there more than three? The third's hunter's panicked gurgles faded as he stumbled out of the house, blood —his blood or someone else's?— smearing the wall as he pressed against it, willing his body to keep fighting. He peered around the corner.

A fourth hunter held Sira in front of him like a shield, his plasma gun pointed at her head. "Don't try anything, mask maker. Come out now or the kalei dies."

Tharrak's drugged mind struggled to find a way out their predicament. He was out of ammo and could barely stand. Were there more enemies?

"Now!" he shouted. He twisted Sira's arm to emphasize his point, causing her to cry out in pain.

No time, he thought. Tharrak limped into the street.

"Toss away your weapons!"

One by one, Tharrak threw away his knives, wrist gun and sword out of arm's reach.

"Good. Now turn around and kneel."

"Yan, Tharrak—"

"Quiet!" The hunter dug his gun into Sira's temple.

Tharrak's sword hand twitched as her face clenched in pain and fear.

"Unlike my deceased comrades, I don't care about collateral damage." He grabbed Sira by her hair and forced her to her knees, his plasma gun now locked onto him. "On your knees. Don't make me ask again."

Tharrak turned around, collapsing to his knees as the world spun.

The hunter chuckled menacingly. "The others didn't like my plan. Said taking this kalei here and her mother hostage was beneath them, like they still had honor. Didn't turn out too well for them, now did it?" He looked over at Tharrak's sword. "Always wanted one of those. Heard you have to kill someone to get one. Guess it's true, then."

He tossed a pair of manacles beside Tharrak, ordering him to chain himself. Once the deed was done, he dragged Sira over and threw her down next to him. "You'll fetch a nice price, too." He began tapping his wrist computer. No doubt calling for his ship, thought Tharrak.

"_Don't suppose I could tempt you with a better offer?"_

The hunter grunted. "The Black Claws are offering more than a clanless rogue like you could ever dream of."

"_It just seems like 30 warriors for one poor mask maker is a bit extreme."_

"Thirty?"

Tharrak shrugged. "_Honestly, I've lost count. I am disappointed though that it was you that caught me."_

The hunter growled. "Watch your tone. I can always deliver your body instead."

Tharrak looked down at Sira, her eyes, as always, searching his mask. Despite the desert heat, he felt cold. A sickly sweet taste filled his mouth and strange creatures floated eerily overhead. _Huh, I may actually die. _Normally, he wouldn't have any regrets. It had only been a matter of time. But the last few months had reminded him of what he'd lost. Of what he could have again. And with her looking at him like that…

"_Sira."_

"Saa?"

"_I_—_"_

Shouts and the pounding of feet surrounded them, the whine of plasma drowning out the bounty hunter's curses. The city guard and warriors recently returned home closed in around them, their faces grim with displeasure. A guard with long, greying dreadlocks stepped forward, growling as he glanced between the hunter and his captives. "What is going on?"

The hunter hesitated. "This is none of your concern. Our contract is with the Black Claws—"

"Don't you dare tell me what is and isn't my concern when you're blasting cannons within city limits, bounty hunter!" He gestured at his guards. "Arrest them."

"Captain Sebek, wait!" Sira pleaded, bowing low. "My master is poisoned and wounded. He'll die if you don't take him to the water healers."

His guards looked to him and he nodded. "Keep him restrained, though. You will come with us, female." Sira tried to protest, but the guards' stern looks silenced her and she watched helplessly as they dragged Tharrak into the back of an open-topped hover craft.

Meanwhile, the bounty hunter raged as he was thrown to the ground and stripped of his weapons. Sebek ignored him, surveying the damage done to the city. The street was pockmarked with small craters; shards of glass glittering here and there where plasma had instantly melted the sand. Several buildings smoldered in the afternoon suns' light. Just what he'd needed, he thought, on today of all days.

After a preliminary sweep, his second approached him. "Sir, two of the bounty hunters are dead. Another is still alive, although he's missing an arm."

"Anything else?"

"We found a dark blade, sir." He unsheathed the sword and handed it to the captain.

Sebek examined it, fascinated at how it seemed to repel all heat or light around it.

"I'd heard rumors that the mask maker was carrying one, but I didn't believe it until now."

"Mask maker?"

"The one who was poisoned, sir. He was the one who killed all those slavers several moons ago in front of hajara Raika."

Captain Sebek looked down at the blade, his interest finally piqued. "In that case, I will interrogate the bounty hunters myself. Let me know when they are ready."

The guard inclined his head and Sebek left his second to finish the investigation. He must report what he'd learned to the shajara immediately.


	4. A Warning

Ya'll have no idea how many times I rewrote and rewrote this chapter. Nothing clicked until this latest version, and suddenly the next three chapters fell into place, which makes me think I'm on the right track. More importantly, I've settled on the themes I want to explore. (Themes are muy importante. They provide focus for your story and character development.)

Also, I know it's short, but not every chapter is or should be X amount of words. Better authors have used only a sentence for a chapter.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it enough to leave a comment. :)

* * *

**Pronunciation Guide**

**Ahandra - ah-HAHN-drah**

**Drayari - drah-YAH-ree** \- seer, literally "dream walker"

**Gaidulus - GAI-duh-luss**

**Kai - KAI **\- high priest/priestess of Kuuroch

**Kuuroch - KOO-rock**

**Lak'shura nakila - LAAK-shoo-rah nah- KEE-lah - **to express deep sorrow or regret at one's actions or situation

**Shan'ra - shahn-RAH** \- feminine form of "shan" - title of the leader of Kuuroch

**Thras'ka - THRASS-kah** \- shape-shifter

**Threitak - THREY-taak** \- the flame of anger, passion and courage

**Zaiyra - zai-EIR-ah**

* * *

**A Serpent**

* * *

_The city gleamed in the morning light, a lone, white tower rising from the edge of the lake, the somber waters a tranquil silver. She looked down at her reflection, the golden heat of her body vaguely reflected upon its dark surface. Behind her, isolated on a small island, a ziggurat basked in the suns' heat, its stones glowing a soothing orange. All was quiet, the sky devoid of cargo ships or clouds. She felt at peace as she walked across the water, concerned with neither who she was nor where she was going._

Kuuroch...

_The thought came, unbidden. She mulled over its familiarity, her eyes drawn to the tower reaching towards the darkening sky, clouds spiraling about its pinnacle._

_Yes, Kuuroch. Her home. She turned, facing the temple. Its stones had become the color of old blood, the suns blocked by clouds blown in from the east. The hot wind moaned as it swept across the lake and she realized it was coming for her. Heat blasted her skin and lightning cracked across the blackened sky. The lake boiled away and she fell, pain searing through her skull as she crashed against the bottom. She sat up, staring in horror at the bones of the dead stretching in all directions._

Fools… _the voice thundered across the land._

_It would all burn, she realized. Every last man, woman and child would kneel or die. Flames engulfed the city above, smoke charring the sky as black clouds boiled and writhed. Tongues of lightning lashed the tower, white stone and glass shattering as explosions ripped up its spine, its broken shaft toppling into bone-filled lake._

Burn... Burn it all!

"Nooo!" Ahandra screamed as she jerked upright, nausea gripping her as the room spun. She clutched her chest, deep, shuddering breaths wracking her body as she searched for the source of her nightmare. Shield knelt before her, his words muffled and alien. He held a holo-pad in front of him. "_...you see? What did you hear? Ahandra?"_

"Kuuroch," she finally gasped. "Kuuroch is burning. There's fire. A voice. And… something about a lake." She gritted her fangs, whimpering as agony lanced through her skull. "I can't remember."

Dutifully, he wrote everything down. "_Anything else?"_

She grasped at her vision, but the searing pain blossoming within her mind pushed all thoughts aside and the vision quickly dissolved into a blur of flames and hatred. When Ahandra opened her eyes again, Shield was carrying her.

"What happened?"

"_I'm taking you to the healers."_

The healers couldn't help her, but she knew Shield could not be dissuaded when he decided her safety was threatened. "How long was I out?"

"_Not long."_

"Did I say anything else?"

"_Yan, but you were hot to the touch."_

The healers quietly greeted and fussed over her, Ahandra's awareness fading as the painkillers kicked in. She despised the pity she felt for herself almost as much as she hated the pain. She could no more predict the future than anyone else in her current state. The elders no longer sought her out. Once again she was a thras'ka. An abomination. The only reason she remained drayari was because of Zaiyra.

Ahandra squinted in the darkness and repeated the name in her head silently. _Zaiyra. _A momentary sense of dread sunk into her stomach, then vanished like a wisp of smoke, leaving behind only the frustration that she'd forgotten something important.

She flinched as light suddenly poured into the room.

From the orange glow emerged a female with long, jet-black tendrils and lustrous, golden-brown skin. Ahandra blinked as the shadows returned, trying to make out the glowing figure before her.

"Did I wake you?"

She sat up, fumbling to straighten her robe, the painkillers numbing her limbs and thoughts. "No, I just wasn't expecting anyone. Is everything alright?"

Zaiyra's brows creased with concern as she smiled. "I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about. I feel so guilty about not seeing you more and when I heard you were here… well I had to come."

"I'm surprised Shield let you in."

"I promised him I would only bother you for a moment."

"If the elders need more information, I'll need more time—"

"Don't worry about the elders." Before Ahandra could protest further, Zaiyra continued. "I'm not saying this as kai. I'm saying this as your friend. Your visions are important, but I do not want you hurting yourself, saa?"

"...Saa."

Gently, Zaiyra clasped one of Ahandra's hands with her own, hoping she could convince her this was the right thing to do. "Focus on your family and getting better. That's all that matters." Her advice was met with silence. "Ahandra?"

Gently, Zaiyra shook her shoulder, unsure whether she should get a healer.

Ahandra flinched and her head snapped up, her eyes rolling into the back of her skull. Before Zaiyra could call for help, her friend let loose a strangled cry and launched herself forward, hot, sweaty hands clawing at her throat.

"Ahandra, what are you doing? Ahandra!? Ahandra, stop!"

They crashed to the floor, Zaiyra desperately trying to shield herself as her friend tore at her face and arms, Ahandra's claws digging into flesh as she ripped away fabric.

Shield burst into the room, quickly prying Ahandra off and shouting for a healer as he held her down. Before Zaiyra could even think, her bodyguard Venom was beside her, pulling her away from the mayhem.

A deranged mantra chased her out the door. _"Bewaretheserpent, bewaretheserpent, bewaretheserpent…"_ The warning faded and Zaiyra looked back to see a healer pull a syringe from Ahandra's arm. Shield cradled her as she fell unconscious, his mask scanning her body.

The healers took her to another room to treat her cuts, Venom silently fuming at himself for allowing her to be hurt.

"It's not your fault." She winced as sealant seeped over the claw marks decorating her arms and chest. Thankfully, they were much shallower than they appeared.

The tang of ozone brushed over her tongue as her other bodyguard de-cloaked and she glanced towards the door. "Ghost."

"_You are hurt."_ A low growl reverberated within the depths of his metallic chest.

Zaiyra looked down at her arms and chest, running her fingers over her neck to check her injuries. She smelled no blood, despite the large welts flaring across her arms. "Iyan, I am alright."

Venom looked away as she exchanged her torn robes for a simple wrap that extended to the floor, the end draping over one shoulder. All she could think of was Ahandra's mad eyes and the fear in her voice. After she dismissed the healer attending her, she ordered Venom to bring Shield to her. Ghost remained conspicuously near, silent and unmoving. In his own way, Zaiyra knew he was berating himself as well.

Venom shortly returned with Shield in tow. He removed his mask, revealing a face wrinkled with strain and mandibles grimly clasped together. He bowed low, fist over heart.

"How is she?"

Shield straightened, but could not meet her gaze. "Sedated. They are still examining her. She may need to be moved to a more advanced facility, depending on what the healers decide."

Zaiyra nodded. Ahandra posed a great mystery to medicine. Drayari were incredibly rare and little was known how their abilities affected themselves or others around them. On top of that, she was a physical clone of a previous kai, the original bearer her mysterious gift.

"Lak'shura nakila, Zaiyra-kai. If I had known that her mental state had deteriorated that much, I never would have allowed anyone near without myself or a healer present."

"Do not blame yourself, Shield. It was I who insisted on seeing her alone." She stepped forward, fingers laced in front of her. "But I need you to answer some questions."

"Of course." He folded his hands behind his back and stood slightly taller, his training as a soldier slipping through.

"Has she ever done anything like this before? Attacked anyone or harmed herself?"

"Iyan, never. At her worse, she would wander aimlessly and forget where she was going or repeat the same tasks she'd already done."

"How long has this been happening?"

"I am not sure when it began, but it has grown much worse this past year, enough to where I no longer believe her when she insists that she is fine. Also, she can no longer summon visions voluntarily - instead they assault her randomly during the day and at night she does not sleep, according to her clan's caregiver. Yet, she still insists on trying to regain control."

"So her mind truly is failing." Threitak flared within Zaiyra's chest. How could she have overlooked her friend's suffering? How many times had she asked Ahandra about what she'd glimpsed in her dreams? "I did not know."

"If I may be so bold, I am convinced her affliction originates from her abilities. The healers have been unable to find any physical or genetic abnormalities. I have tried asking her to stop dream-walking, but she refuses. In fact, the more her abilities spiral out of control, the harder she pushes herself to make sense of them. She is convinced something terrible will happen to Kuuroch again."

So much was unknown regarding drayari. It was a pity the kai before her had not left more knowledge behind before her passing. Ahandra might be her clone, but their minds were completely unique. "I want to see her vision logs. Perhaps Gaidulus and I can glean something from them."

Shield bowed his head. "I will have them sent to you immediately."

Zaiyra stopped him as he turned to leave. "Shield… what did Ahandra mean by 'beware the serpent'?"

"I am not sure, but it is a symbol that seems to appear regularly in her visions."

"I see. Thank you for your help. When Ahandra recovers, I want her sent home, no matter what she says. She needs to rest and be with her family. Perhaps then she can find some peace."

"Perhaps."

Zaiyra pondered the bodyguard's words as she left the clinic, wondering if she should not also consult with the shan'ra directly rather than through her political advisors. Nothing in the world's current state suggested conflict was imminent — if anything, the opposite was the case. She paused at a balcony overlooking the city.

Kuuroch gleamed in the morning light, the lone, white tower of the central government rising from the edge of the Lake of a Thousand Tears, the somber waters the permanent grave site of the Thousand Blades clan and countless others. The waters were a tranquil silver, airships and transport vehicles shimmering across its clear surface. The monolithic tower stood as a beacon of promise, the city finally prospering after a long period of disunity and economic hardship. The High Clan's trade sanctions had eased in recent years, and the city's young government was handling the challenges of a more diverse political system well.

It wasn't all perfect though. Haze from the industrial slums clouded the southern horizon. Its inhabitants were a continual source of unrest, criminals, clanless and other undesirables pushed from the Tunnels to the surface and crowded as far away as possible from the sky-born. Meanwhile, the latter continued to resist the clan integration policy. They bemoaned loss of tradition and and fought to return to the old ways.

Was Kuuroch truly in danger, or had Ahandra finally succumbed to madness?


	5. A Trial

**Pronunciation Guide**

**Hrathka - H'RAATH-kah **

**Israzal - ISS-rah-zahl**

**kedu - KEH-doo**

**Najinsi - nah-JIN-see**

**Ye'ala - yeh'AH-lah**

* * *

**A Trial**

* * *

Sira shivered in the darkness of her cell, huddling closer to the wall as she desperately tried to warm her frozen body. The chill sunk into her naked flesh, cracking skin and numbing her hands and feet. As the heat of her breath escaped her quivering mandibles, she wondered for the thousandth time if Tharrak had survived and if she would ever feel Feiren and Iren's rays again.

She winced as light poured into her cell, eyes watering as she glimpsed two guards standing in the doorway. One barked at her to get up and she obeyed, stiff fingers searching for purchase. But she was too slow. Snarling, a guard roughly hauled her to her feet and shoved her against the freezing wall, tightly binding her wrists behind her before dragging her into the light. The pair grabbed her arms beneath her shoulders and hauled her forward, Sira stumbling as her aching legs tried to keep up with their long strides. The hallways were not much warmer than her cell, but the heat radiating from the guards' mesh suits made her shudder.

After several floors and endless rows of identical cell doors, they stopped, the door whirring as it whisked open. Wordlessly, they pushed her inside, prodding her with their deactivated shock batons when she moved too slowly. Sira did not need to be told to kneel within the square depression in the middle of the room, keeping her head down as she shuffled towards it.

Despite her exhaustion, her hearts raced. What would they do to her this time? She'd been beaten, burned with ice water and left in darkness for hours. And every time she'd told them the same story.

She'd walked to the well as punishment and found Tharrak.

He'd bought her and her mother from the hajara.

He was a skilled mask maker.

That's all she knew.

The door swished open again, but she did not look. Instead, she softly inhaled, trembling with uncertainty and hope as she recognized Hrathka's scent. She had not seen him since her introduction to this terrible place. What would he do? Sira tensed as his sandalled feet came into view, her bruised and battered knees already screaming at her as the rough sandstone bit into them. She couldn't take much more of this. She couldn't keep her secret much longer.

His grim voice casually stripped away her calm veneer. "You're shaking. What are you afraid of?"

Sira squeezed her eyes shut, clamping her mandibles together to keep from whimpering.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

A shock baton zapped to life and a guard growled from behind her. "Answer the interrogator, slave."

Sira opened her eyes but kept her head down, Hrathka's feet barely an arm's length away.

The guard took a step forward and she stiffened.

"Stop. That won't be necessary."

The baton powered off and the guard stepped back.

Sira let out the breath she'd been holding, unable to keep from shaking. It might be a trap. False hope. Her first interrogator had seemed civil. She'd quickly learned otherwise.

"Your trial will begin shortly. Before the shajara decides your fate, do you have anything you wish to confess?"

"Y-yan," she whispered, eyes wide with terror. The trial could be a lie. A ruse to get her to reveal the one thing she couldn't. Musn't.

"I see… stand up."

Sira struggled to make her legs work, falling over several times as blood worked their way back into her limbs and nerve endings. When she finally managed to stand, Hrathka circled behind her and Sira braced herself for the strike she was sure to come.

To her surprise, he unlatched her bindings, ordering the guards to have her cleaned and clothed. "I want her presentable before she is taken to the high court, understood?"

They nodded and guided her towards the door.

Sira accidentally met his eyes, instantly recognizing him as the second-in-command under Captain Sebek. He'd been there the day the bounty hunters had attacked her and Tharrak. Beneath his stern appearance she thought she saw a glimmer of pity in his eyes. Did he already know? Had her chance for mercy passed?

She would never know, the door closing shut behind her.

After changing hands several times, Sira was brought to a water priestess for cleansing. She nearly cried as heat bathed her battered skin and warm broth washed down her throat. The female applied healing salves to her bruises and welts, then clothed her in black garb of the accused, which was little more than a short loincloth and a loose shoulder wrap that fell to her knees. She asked about her mother, but the water priestess remained silent.

She did not remember falling asleep, the healer's gentle touch rousing her awake. She felt a little bit better, until a sharp rap at the door sent the cold venom of fear slithering through her stomach. It slid open to reveal two guards with Hrathka at their head. Her ordeal was not yet over.

Iren was setting as she followed him across an open walkway, orange torches flickering on either side in the evening light. The two guards bringing up the rear halted outside the great hall, Sira trailing after their leader, exhaustion and fear eating at her flagging steps. The large, ornate doors, closed to keep the desert chill out at night, rumbled open, a gust of heat tugging at her shawl as it escaped into the growing twilight.

Silk hung from a jewel-encrusted ceiling, strings of moonstones glittering in the firelight of giant brazers that encircled the sandstone pillars like serpents. Normally, she would be excited at the chance to see the great hall even if she'd glimpsed it before. Now it was the last place she ever wanted to set foot in.

Their footsteps echoed as they entered the heart of the room, Sira prostrating herself at the spot Hrathka indicated. Few had been granted access to the trial. Sebek, naturally. A few councillors and elders. Witnesses. Her mouth felt dry as the chamber doors opened again moments later, the jangle of chains dredging up stories of past trials involving the shajara. She did not understand what she or Tharrak had done to merit this level of scrutiny. She recalled the questions the interrogators had asked her the most: _Who is Tharrak? Where is he from? Is he really just a mask maker?_

A body thudded to the floor next to her, Sira's breath hitching as the male's scent filled her mouth. She would have to be dead not to recognize his scent. _Tharrak._

The guard that had brought him in growled and from the corner of her eyes she watched as he shoved his head to the floor. His mask was still on, scabs congealing around it's edges from where sharp blades had tried to pry it loose. New scars merged with old ones and she noted how thin he'd become, his ribs protruding above his emaciated stomach. His skin was darker than ever, his loincloth like an extra flap of skin hanging from his waist.

"Tharrak," she softly whispered.

He turned his face slightly towards her, his once featureless mask full of dents and cuts.

Another prisoner was led into the chamber and placed several arm spans away to Tharrak's left. Through the curtain of her red tendrils, Sira recognized the hunter who had shot Tharrak with the poison arrow. He was alive? Even after Tharrak had cut off his arm? Where was the other hunter?

A horn, low and mournful, resounded within the great hall and Sira returned her gaze to the floor, despair and hope warring within her hearts. The shajara had arrived.

After everyone had taken their places, a guard tapped the bottom of his glaive to the floor. "The accused will now rise and face judgment." Sira sat up first, Tharrak and the hunter rising slower since their hands were bound behind their backs.

Above them, a dozen paces away and up several stairs, loomed the shajara on his golden throne, a crimson cloak spilling from his shoulders and onto the floor. Despite the wealth of the room around him, he was dressed simply, a black shoulder guard wrapped across his chest and sweet smelling oils had been rubbed over his muscular frame. Attached to the hip of his matching loincloth, firelight reflected in the only luxury he'd indulged in: a golden sword. The blade had tasted the blood of many criminals and Sira cringed to think of what it would feel like for it to slice through her own neck.

Sebek stepped forward, just below the stairs, and cleared his throat. "The first of the accused is the bounty hunter Jadar of operating an illegal hunt within the city of limits of Sahar without notifying or receiving permission from the proper authorities. How does the accused plead?"

The hunter bowed his head, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Guilty."

The shajara nodded and Sebek continued. "To pay off your debts and the debts of your deceased accomplices incurred during the destruction of Saharian property, you will serve Shajara Israzal in the arenas. Upon payment or death will you be released from these debts."

The guards dragged the stunned Jadar away, but Sira was not sure if it was because he was allowed to live or because the shajara was sending him, a one-armed warrior, to the pits.

"The second of the accused is Tharrak. He is charged with the murder of a Black Claw, threatening Hajara Raika, assaulting and killing legal slave traders from the Najinsi province, and trespassing while carrying the blade of an assassin. How does the accused plead?"

The room began spin, Sebek's words ringing in Sira's head. Yan, it couldn't be true. Not Tharrak. Memories flashed by of her finding him alone, clanless, in the desert. Screams and a severed head flying towards her. A blade as dark as the night sky cutting through Jadar's shoulder. A featureless mask, staring at her during a game of djajin.

_Who is Tharrak? _

She looked at him, suddenly afraid. Three moons in his bed and she knew nothing of him, not even his real name.

Then, to her and everyone's horror and surprise, he stood.

Guards immediately closed in around him, shouting at him to kneel. A gesture from the shajara and they stood down, albeit reluctantly.

"Choose your next words carefully, outsider," growled Sebek.

The musk of tension filled the air, but when Sira glanced at the shajara, he seemed mildly amused.

"_I will answer each charge and let the shajara himself decide whether I am guilty or not." _Even with a dozen glaives ready to cut him to pieces, he was not afraid. There was a distant calm surrounding him, an aura of detachment Sira could not comprehend.

"_I'm sure the bounty hunters told you about the Black Claw I killed several years ago and the reward placed on my head. However, their employer undoubtedly forgot to mention a key detail: that the male I killed murdered my master." _Tharrak paused, Sira noticing his bound hands clenching slightly.

"_The Black Claw harassed my master and other shop owners, pressing them for extra taxes and protection money. This was normal, but as the son of the Black Claw's clan leader, he felt he had... special privileges and was entitled to take whatever he wanted whenever he wanted without consequences. The harassment continued for years, evolving into torture, rape, enslavement and murder of anyone who dared defy him. Of course, his father turned a blind eye to all of this. One day, my master, who was old and blind, refused to give him a mask he'd made for someone else. The son killed him and took it._

She could hear it in his voice, the rasp of grief still haunting his words. They must have been close, almost like family.

_I went to the arbiters and asked for a trial. They laughed and threw me out. I went to the son and demanded a duel. His cronies beat me and left me for dead. So I did what my master would have done. I made a mask. I boasted that it was the best in the world and worth far more than anyone could afford, and then waited. Of course, the son came, demanding the mask. I revealed others, all matching, all covered in gold and jewels. He and his cronies tried them on and then left without paying, all having a good laugh." _He stiffened, anger clenching his chest and arms. "_And then I killed them."_

"How?" asked Sebek when no other answer seemed forthcoming.

"_With the press of a button."_

"The masks detonated?"

"_I'd inserted drill hooks along the rim of the masks. When activated, they were designed to be sharp enough and strong enough to burrow into flesh and bone. A pressure valve then released any remaining air, creating a seal. At that point, the eye sockets blackened in reaction to the suns' light, taking away their sight. I wanted them to die as my master had died: blind and helpless." _Tharrak sighed, releasing some of the tension coiled within his scarred flesh. "_I've been hunted ever since."_

Everyone in the room looked at each other uneasily, unsure what to think. Heads snapped and dreadlocks whirled as a low chuckle rumbled from the throne.

"An interesting tale." The shajara leaned forward, one arm draped over a thigh. "But you have put me in awkward position. The Black Claws are no friends of Sahar, but neither are they enemies. If I pardon you, there will be repercussions neither of us can foresee. And I do not want others to think of Sahar as a haven for your kind."

"_The Black Claws carry little weight in the West, though they like to think otherwise."_ This earned a chuckle from a few councillors. "_Declare my kills justified and at the same time make an announcement that all yautja with a price on their head will be hunted down by Sahar's guardians in cooperation with _registered _bounty hunters."_

The shajara grunted and leaned back.

Sebek cleared his throat. "For formality's sake, I must ask how you plead?"

"_Not guilty."_

With a nod from the shajara, the plea was sustained.

"Tharrak, you will now answer the accusation of threatening Hajara Raika and assaulting several slave traders during a legal negotiation."

Tharrak snorted softly. "_Those 'legal' slave traders kidnap as many slaves as they trade for. Since I was alone, they thought they'd add me to their collection. I managed to escape, but was wounded and without my possessions. I knew the slavers were heading east to an oasis located somewhere in this godsforsaken desert. After two days, I fainted, mere steps away from a well. Then she found me." _He looked down at her, Sira wishing she could see those eyes hidden behind the cracked metal and glass. What were they thinking right now? What did they feel when they saw her?

"_After she saved me, I continued my search for the slavers, only to run into the hajara trying to sell the female I had met hours earlier to the very slavers I had been hunting. I'll admit I was looking for an excuse to fight. They'd tried to enslave and kill me. They'd stolen everything I owned. And they were beating the person I owed my life to. So I asked them, politely, to give me back my sword. When they declined, well… you know the rest."_

Sira listened to the whispered rumbles, hoping they swayed the shajara in favor of Tharrak. Disreputable slavers were often shunned by the upperclass. Legal slaves typically were more reliable, less likely to run away or become resentful, and had the hope of buying their freedom depending on their standing.

Her fists clenched as she recalled the moment the head slaver had ripped off her head covering, conscious even now that her strange hair was visible for all to see. _Don't hurt her! Do you know how much this slave is worth? Hide her before the others see her. _His words haunted her, made her look over her shoulder when she was alone. What had they meant? Why was she worth so much?

_As for Hajara Raika, it was not my intention to intimidate her. I was a bit… gruff. I handed her almost all of what money I had — a fair amount for two slaves — and I left, trying to figure out what the hell I would do with a price on my head and two slaves in tow, one of whom could barely stand. Also, I would like to point out the hajara came to me and negotiated a contract of service."_

Sebek seemed taken aback by the last piece of information. "I... was not aware of this."

"_It was supposed to be a surprise. A gift," _Tharrak inclined his head towards the throne. "_For the shajara to wear during the celebrations."_

"Only a fool would wear your masks, outsider," the shajara rumbled, his mandibles pulled together in a grim smirk.

"_My masks are worth the risk."_

"Is that so?"

Sebek cut in, his stern voice cracking across the room. "What of judgment, my lord?"

The shajara sighed and slouched against his throne, barely even looking Tharrak's way. "How do you plead, _mask maker_?"

"_Not guilty."_

The shajara nodded, but silenced Sebek before he could move on to the final accusation. He leaned forward, Sira tensing even though his menacing aura was directed towards Tharrak. "Understand that you are found not guilty because there is lack of proof to corroborate your story and the slavers have ignored our calls to send a representative to give testimony. And while you may not have 'intended' to insult my first mate and she has managed to look past your transgression, I have not. You disrespected my mate and so have disrespected me. For that you must pay in blood. Thirty lashings at sunrise in the public square should be enough of a reminder."

Sira looked to Tharrak, anxiety tightening her chest. She'd glimpsed public floggings. Over the jeers and laughter, the punished screamed, both strong and weak. It wasn't meant to kill, and most survived. But accidents happened. And he could barely stand as it was.

There was no reaction from him other than the steady rise and fall of his chest.

She blurted the words out before she had a chance to hesitate. "I will take his place!"

Tharrak's head snapped towards her. "Yan!"

She avoided looking at him, pressing her case. "A slave can be substituted in the place of their master for repayment of debts, stolen property, punishment— "

"Silence, slave!" Sebek roared. "You have no voice here."

Sira dropped her head to the floor, hoping she had not made things worse for Tharrak.

"Only a master may invoke such a right. Now stay quiet or I will have your tongue cut out."

The room fell silent save for a few chittering clicks and whispers. "Now," Sebek returned his attention to Tharrak. "You will answer the third charge: why do you carry the blade of an assassin?"

"_I won it while gambling."_

"Do not lie, outsider, unless you want to enjoy the lash more than you already will."

"_I wish I had a more exciting story to tell, but that's all there is, I'm afraid."_

"You're skill with the blade says otherwise."

"_I've survive countless bounty hunters and picked up a few tricks here and there, but mostly I've survived on luck. Although I'm flattered, I plead not guilty."_

Sebek huffed and looked to the shajara, who upheld the plea. "Take him to the holding cells and have a water priestess tend to his wounds." He gestured towards Sira. "Bring her forward."

Sira's breath hitched. What had she done?

"_What?"_ Tharrak growled as the guards grabbed his arms "_What do you want with her?"_

"That is none of your concern," said Sebek as Sira was dragged to the foot of the stairs. The warm stone suddenly felt cold beneath her skin as they shoved her to the floor. She cringed as heavy footsteps ominously approached from above, the heady scent of perfume and musk filling her mouth. She could hear the sharp jangling of chains as Tharrak struggled, his growls cut off as the great doors sealed shut. The shajara was so close she could sense his heat and she trembled as she felt his gaze scan her huddled form.

"Leave us," growled the shajara and the audience quickly shuffled out. "Except you, Sebek, and your second. I need witnesses."

The hall's doors thoomed shut and Sira was hyper-aware of the blood pounding in her skull. She was alone. Alone and uncertain as to her crime.

"Hrathka."

"Saa?"

"Bring me my _wife_." The venom in his voice palpable.

Sira's shaking hands clenched and her stomach turned. They knew. Somehow they knew. _Oh Goddess, please. Please, please, please don't let me die._

The shajara's deep voice froze her thoughts. "Stand."

A growl of warning from Sebek motivated her to move, the journey to her feet surreal as her limbs moved on their own, mechanical and compliant. She hunkered her shoulders and hugged her shawl against her chest as she straightened, eyes staring unwaveringly at the ground.

Breatheinbreatheout.

Breatheinbreatheout.

A finger, hot and solid, slid under her chin, a thumb pressing against her chin. She stiffened, unable to breathe, unable to move, helpless as her wide eyes were lifted until they stared up into the shajara's fearsome face, deep-set silver irises glinting as they reflected orange firelight.

"You are afraid. Good." His hand released his hold on face, but Sira remained spellbound. She dared not look away. "That means you will not lie to me."

She couldn't breathe. Her throat remained lock. Black spots appeared in her vision.

Sebek caught her before she fell, the shajara clicking in amusement as he stood her back up, Sira wobbling as she tried to regain her balance.

"I am so terrifying?"

"S-saa," she managed to stutter as she blinked away the last of the dots. "You are shajara. I am no one."

"Iyan, you are not 'no one.' You are a slave. Once my slave, now bound to another. And slaves hear things a shajara cannot, see things others would keep him from knowing. Look at me when I speak to you," he growled.

Sira's eyes snapped back up to his face despite years of etiquette and beatings screaming at her to look away.

He huffed. "Now, what was your name?"

"Sira."

"Sira…"

The chamber doors opened, all eyes drawn to the proud hajara and a grim-faced Hrathka following in her wake. As soon as she caught sight of Sira, her serene face twisted into a displeased sneer. "What is that thing doing here? Why does she not kneel at your feet?"

"Because I asked her to stand."

Her glare morphed into incredulity. "But— "

A sharp growl silenced the hajara and she petulantly gripped the folds of her robe, her suspicious eyes darting between her and the shajara.

"Now," he rumbled. "You will tell me why the hajara sent you into the desert."

Oh, Goddess. Her throat suddenly felt dry and she swallowed.

"Israzal, I told you— "

The shajara rounded on Raika. "Speak one more word and I will strike you female," he roared. "_Do not test me."_

Raika shriveled under his gaze and bowed her head. It was the first time Sira had ever seen the hajara afraid.

The shajara glared, growling angrily as he turned back to her. "I keep hearing troublesome rumors, rumors that displease me. Hrathka tells me his interrogators could not break you. But I know you will not withhold the truth from me. I ask you again: why were sent into the desert?" He stared down at her, his eyes like burning coals as he grimly awaiting her response.

"I-I don't kn— "

A sharp growl thundered within the shajara's chest. "Chose your words carefully, slave," he hissed. "This is your only warning. Say you do not know again, or lie, and I will cut out your tongue. Then I will find someone else who will tell me what I want to know."

He would do it, she realized. As she stared at him, at his narrowed eyes and clenched fists shaking with barely concealed fury, she knew he meant every word he'd spoken.

The words came out slowly at first, her voice barely rising above a whisper. "The hajara was... angry with me. I'd made a mistake — I don't remember what it was — and for my punishment she sent me to… to the well."

"Which well?"

"The Well of the Dead."

Anger flushed his face, heat building around his cheeks and forehead. "Why?"

"To gather its water. But then I found Tharrak, and I couldn't carry him and the water back at the same time."

The shajara's hands clenched and unclenched, the anger of his musk sending Sira's hearts racing. "What else?" he snarled.

The words tumbled out, the dam broken, her secret torn open. "I took him to Ona, a water priestess, who said that the water in the Well of the Dead was cursed and since I had drank some, I was unclean, so she made me drink nothing but blessed water from the oasis for three days, and then she confronted the hajara, and…and that's all. The hajara tried to sell my mother to punish my failure. That's when Tharrak stopped her."

A heavy silence followed her words, Sira's hearts fluttering like panicked birds trapped in a cage full of flames. The shajara stared into the distance, his chest slowly heaving with every breath. "Why did she want the water?"

Sira looked at the hajara and then the floor, her poisonous glare seared into her mind's eye. "I only know gossip and what Ona told me."

"And?"

Why did she feel so guilty? Why did the truth hurt? "She— "

"Shajara, this all just a misunderstanding. If you would let me explain— "

His glare silenced her. Tension lingered in the air between them, Sira's hackles rising in fear as the shajara's aggressive musk overwhelmed the perfume and scented oils coating him, absorbing her in its quiet vortex of rage. Returned his gaze to her. "Continue."

"It-it was whispered that the hajara wanted the water to curse Ye'ala because… because she was jealous of her and feared she'd bear a son." She looked up then, puzzled she had not realized it before. "But the water isn't poisonous. I drank it and— "

A dark chuckle from the shajara silenced her.

"Saa, slave, it is true. Alone, the water of the Well of the Dead has no power. But it is not called that name without reason. When combined with a specific kind of fruit that only grows in the wastes, a deadly toxin is released. Can you guess the fruit I'm referring to?"

She nodded stiffly, recalling the box of exotic red fruit that had mysteriously shown up in her kitchen the day before she'd been sent to the well.

The hajara stared at him, rage and accusation flushing her body with heat. "What are you talking about? What fruit? I don't understand."

Sira couldn't find her voice. _But I didn't know! Nothing happened. _"Ona… Ona can— "

"The water healer is dead."

Her eyes widened. What? Ona was dead? When? How? Who would… she glanced at the hajara before the thought even finished.

"How dare you look at me that way, slave. I am the hajara. I am more than you will ever be!" She looked to the shajara, panic lacing the outrage in her voice. "I want her punished! She speaks nothing but lies."

A small, bright flame of anger ignited within Sira then, her fear transforming into hate.

"See how she looks at me? Why do you do nothing— "

The shajara grabbed her throat before she could even flinch, the hajara instinctively clutching at his wrist. Sira's satisfaction evaporated as he ripped his sword from its sheath, the golden blade ominously caressing her jaw. The hajara squirmed, her pleas cut off as he squeezed harder. "I should kill you," he rasped. He shook her, snarling as her fearful musk spread across the room. "Why? Why?!"

Sebek and Hrathka had stepped forward, the captain of the guard futilely trying to reason with the irate shajara. Raika clawed at his arm, her face turning a deep red as her blood cooled beneath her skin.

"An elder water priestess is dead. Ye'ala sleeps at death's door and her.. my…" His hand squeezed the leather hilt of his sword tighter, the blade's edge drawing a trickle of blood from her cheek. He didn't have to finish, the sorrow in his voice telling Sira the unspoken truth: his child — his firstborn — was dead. Raika had succeeded.

He dropped her in disgust and Raika crumpled to the floor, heaving gasps wracking her body.

"All for what?" he snapped bitterly. "Jealousy?"

The hajara rubbed her throat and looked up at him, her mandibles pulled back into a defiant snarl. "I have done _nothing_."

"Yan, you just had someone else do your work for you."

"You have no proof," she snapped.

The shajara looked to Sebek, who only shook his head. "The slave called Erefet is nowhere to be found. Other slaves have been interrogated, but they merely repeat the same rumor."

Sira felt like a hole had been ripped into chest. "Erefet…" Yan. Not her friend. Not Erefet. She sunk to her knees.

"You knew this slave?" asked Sebek, his eyes questioning.

She nodded slowly, disbelief filling her voice. "She was my friend."

The shajara started shouting at Raika, but Sira no longer cared what happened. The only people in her life other than her mother and Tharrak were dead. Gone. She would never see Erefet's easy smile and listen to her chitter on about who was sneaking into the groves with whom. Never hear Ona's gruff warnings and stern wisdom whenever she needed advice and was feeling lost.

No, not gone. Taken.

"Why?" she heard herself say.

The shouting grew louder, Sebek and Hrathka scuffling with the shajara as he raised his sword to strike.

She looked up, anger and grief flushing her skin. "Why?!"

Her scream silenced the commotion, all eyes turning to her as if suddenly remembering that she too was in the room.

The shajara jerked his arms from the arbiters' grasps with a snarl. "Hrathka, take her away. I am finished here." He sheathed his sword and then looked at Sebek, who nodded. As Hrathka pulled Sira to her feet and led her away, several guards rushed in. The hajara hissed as they grabbed her and began hauling her away. Her screams of indignation and fear fell on deaf ears, the shajara's gaze averted as he stared at something only he could see.

Before the doors closed, a roar shook the great hall, its rage and grief echoing in Sira's ears long after. It was the sound of someone who had gained the world, yet lost everything that was most precious to them.

* * *

**\\-/**

* * *

Sira followed Hrathka, clutching her shawl as she worked up the courage to ask him the questions sitting on the tips of her mandibles. So much had happened.

"Hrathka?"

A low growl silenced her and she bowed her head, focusing on the stones passing beneath her feet. They continued that way, their footfalls echoing in the emptiness with nothing but dancing shadows to witness their journey. She shivered as he took her outside, back towards the prison tower. Fear gripped her then, the thought of going back to those icy cells nearly prompting her to run. Hrathka held his wrist guard up to a scanner next to the door and it whirred open, heat and light pouring onto them. He pushed her inside without a word and left, the door whirring shut behind her.

A guard, fat and bored, barely glanced at her. "Name."

"Um, Sira."

He flicked through the hologram screen hovering above his desk, scanning through the names of prisoners and the dates of their internment and trials. "Your personal belongings have been stored in locker 1183. Go left, collect your things and place your trial garments in the baskets at the end of the row. Anything you leave behind is considered property of the city guard. If something has been taken as evidence, then you will need to file a formal request with the lead interrogator. We are not responsible for any damage to your belongings and will not reimburse you for said damage. Do you understand?"

"Um, saa."

He grunted and stuck a kedu stick in his fangs, the noxious smell making her gag. She took a step towards the lockers and then looked back at the guard. Perhaps... "Excuse me."

The guard pulled the stick from his mouth and exhaled, purple-black smoke curling around his flabby jaws. He leaned back in his chair, flicking red hot ash onto the floor as he finally looked at her for the first time. "What?"

"Is there someone named Kahet being held here?"

He sighed, grumbling as he stuck his stick back in his mouth and tapped a few keys. He grunted. "No such person here."

Thank the Goddess. Her mother was safe. "What about Tharrak?"

"What do I look like, a service drone? You think I work for you, slave?" Black smoke puffed from his sour face. "Get off with you, before I accidentally log you as escaped."

Sira scuttled away, ducking behind a row of lockers and mentally cursing herself for giving in so easily. But what could she do? She wracked her thoughts as she exchanged her trial garments for her own clothes, but nothing came to mind and she had no money to offer as a bribe. She returned to the entry area and sat, waiting for someone to escort her out.

As the minutes ticked by, Sira noticed the guard glancing at her every so often as if he annoyed by the fact that she was still there. She squirmed in her seat, glancing around the room. There was nothing to look at and nothing to do. The guard kept making calls, grumbling louder and louder each time it went unanswered or someone told him they were too busy. "Useless bastards... can't get any help around here... have to do everything myself."

Sira swallowed, her voice practically a whisper. "Sir?"

He continued muttering and puffing smoke.

A little louder. "Sir?"

He took out his kedu stick and pointed it at her. "Listen. I don't care who you master is. But I'm tired of looking at you."

The door squawked and opened, revealing a guard Sira didn't recognize.

The guard with the kedu stick exhaled. "Take her to the holding cells."

"You pulled me off guard duty for an escort mission?" The unfamiliar guard looked her over, his eyes locking on to the collar clamped around her neck. "For a slave?"

"I didn't know gambling was considered guard duty," the larger guard drawled. He bent back over the holo-panels as if to dismiss them. "Do your job or some vids of guard room will accidentally end up on Captain Sebek's desk."

The other guard stuttered, then gritted his teeth and jerked his head for Sira to follow him. She jumped to her feet, keeping close behind.

It was a short walk to the holding cells, the guard easily bypassing the security drones over-watching the entrance. "You have five marks." He shoved a heat torch into her hand and turned away, warily glancing about the empty courtyard.

Sira bowed her head and eased her way down the narrow stone steps into the inky violetness below. With a simple press of a button, the heat torch bathed the surrounding area in a gloomy red glow. She held the device in front of her, swinging it side to side with each cell she passed. "Tharrak?"

"_Sira?"_

"Where are you?"

"_Over here."_

The light revealed interlocking spiral bars sealed at the center, angry red letters glowing in the darkness. Tharrak stepped into view, the chains around his wrists and ankles jangling taut. "_Don't touch them!"_

Sira froze, withdrawing her hand when realized there were shock nodes embedded in the metal bars.

"_What happened? Why did the shajara question you alone?"_

"It was about the hajara. I don't have time to explain it all right now, but she succeeded in poisoning Ye'ala."

"_How?"_

Sira's grip tightened around the heat torch. She could not bring herself to speak the whole truth. The wound in her hearts was too fresh. "She found someone else to get the water from the Well of the Dead."

"_I thought he was going to kill you."_" He stepped forward, the chains snapping as he strained against them. "_They hurt you, didn't they? The interrogators?"_

Sira looked away, her the fresh scars lacing her skin prickling at the memory of that cold, dark pit. "It's not your fault," she whispered.

"_It is my fault. If not for me, none of this would have happened."_

"You're wrong." Sira looked up. "If not for you, I would be dead."

He cocked his head to the side. "_What are you talking about?"_

"If I hadn't found you in the desert that day, I would have been found guilty of poisoning the shajara's concubine, even if I hadn't understood what I was doing." She stepped as close as she dared towards the bars. "In a way, you saved my life as much as I saved yours." She smiled softly. "It's like we were meant to find each other."

"'_Meant to?'"_

The heat torch began to glow brighter, orange light glittering across his cracked mask. If she squinted, she could almost make out a distorted face amongst the dents and cuts. The light also illuminated the many jagged scars twisting across his skin and she was reminded of what the morning would bring. "Tharrak, I'm worried about tomorrow. About you."

"_Don't be. I've endured worse."_

"But…"

The door to the holding area opened, the guard barking at her that her time was up.

_"A lot has happened. There will be time to talk about it later."_

"You promise?"

The guard was coming down now, growling at her to hurry.

"_Go,"_ he whispered.

Sira nodded and met the guard at the bottom of the stairs, willing herself not to look back. She'd doubted him during the trial and the guilt ate at her. This time she would trust him and the path they walked, no matter what.


	6. A Rumor

**Pronunciation Guide**

**Dar'Isan** \- DAAR-ee-SAHN

**Drakali **\- drah-KAH-lee

**Qarqün** \- kar-KUUN

**Rengar** \- RIN-gar

**Z'tar **\- ZIH-tar

* * *

**A Rumor**

* * *

Far to the east, golden waves crashed against cliffs the color of blood, shriekers darting to and from the churning ocean and their precarious nests. Draped over the cliffs' edges and spilling towards the setting suns lay the vast city of Dar'Isan, its glistering lights burning away the nascent night sky and its stars. Through the haze of light and heat, the city hummed with activity, the shipping docks gouged deep into the cliffside beneath the sprawling metropolis continually consuming and disgorging hundreds of vessels of every size and shape from across the world.

Above, city pathways and mass transport tubes twisted and turned, all inexplicably and inexorably spiraling towards the glowing heart of the city: the shining ziggurat of the High Clan. It shimmered crimson, coral, amaranth and gold in the darkening twilight, and from its crown a beam of ivory light pierced the heavens, visible even from low orbit. Here, at the end of the world, did all things end and begin.

Below, the seething mass of the undercity toiled night and day, slave and freeborn oiling the machine of industry with their sweat and blood. Hunched shoulders and lowered eyes marked them as much as the silver collars hooked into their spines.

The thunder of the great ships within the cavernous ports fell silent as Rengar stepped through the sound shield.

It was the peak of the business hour for the slave market, collectors showing off the wares they had gathered from across the many lands of Ashann. Tall, spotted Drakali from the southern plains of Z'tar, pale-skinned warriors from the ice mountains of Qarqün, horned females from the volcanic islands of the far west, and pit fighters of every creed and color. The air was rank with perfumes to hide the musk of agitated slaves, a trick commonly employed by slavers whose goods were not always obtained legally.

Public bidding wars erupted every so often beneath the central stage for cheap stock that had gone unsold during the previous season. These were usually older or skill-less yautja, but occasionally a gem could be found amongst them.

His sale had been private and discreet, of course. Slaves obtained this way were less traumatized, the natural rage hardwired into their species less likely to be stirred. Rengar took his time, scanning the empty faces of slaves standing in front of their masters' shops. He felt little sympathy for those who rebelled against their place, deserved or not, especially those given the opportunity to serve in greatest city in the world. Power favored those willing to sacrifice weakness and he had done so many times, climbing higher and higher with every passing year. Warlords bowed to him and rulers treated him as an honored guest. What need had he of "freedom?" A meaningless word. Everyone was a slave to something.

A portly yautja with many rings squeezing his thick fingers suddenly stepped into his path, head bowed low. "My lord, forgive my impertinence, but I could not help but notice your discerning eye." He raised himself up slightly, gesturing to the interior of the silken covered entryway. "I bid you to come into my shop for just a moment to gaze upon its treasures. Tell me what you seek. An exotic musician? Perhaps a loyal warrior? I have everything a male of such high standing could think of."

Rengar suppressed a grimace as he glanced at the shop, the lilting sound of a stringed instrument sweetly beckoning customers. It would have been charming were not for the thick mist of perfume practically oozing from within. "I hope you are not wasting my time," he said as he stepped inside, his guards remaining outside to ensure privacy.

"Oh, we can be very quick, very quick. What do you seek?"

"A female. The more exotic, the better."

"Of course, of course. We have plenty to choose from." He turned, snapping his fingers at the other slavers to hurry.

They filed in, naked and sullen.

Rengar reviewed them with obliging interest, trying to hide his distaste at how malnourished some of them were. The head slaver hovered about, extolling the beauty and skills of each female. He tuned out his incessant noise, his eyes landing on a female with pale skin and red eyes. She was not much more than a child, but his master had always preferred them younger.

"That one," he commanded, interrupting whatever the slaver had been saying.

"Saa, excellent choice. Any others? We can always work out a deal."

Rengar slowly glided past the wall of females, feigning interest. "I have heard rumors that you acquired a female of great beauty, but I do not see her here before me." He turned, the light from the outside silhouetting his features. "Where is she?"

The slaver burbled, flabbergasted at the accusation. "Sir, I assure you this is everything we have."

"Everything? Are you sure?"

The insinuation was clear, but the slaver continued his prattling. Either he was too dense or he was dodging the question. Rengar clenched his fangs in irritation. He did not have time for this.

"What is your name?"

"My name? Oh, how forgetful of me. It is Orus, sir. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

"Yan, you may not."

Orus flushed slightly at the brusque dismissal, but he quickly laughed it off. "Ah, you're a busy male. I've taken up too much of your time." He clapped and dismissed the females from the room before pulling out his holopad. "We'll settle the matter of credit now and you can be on your way."

"I think you misunderstood me, slaver. I'm not leaving without the female. Where is she? Did you sell her?"

Orus hesitated. "I don't know what you mean. I have sold a few females, but they hardly stood out from the others."

Rengar stalked forward until he was an arm's length away, no longer bothering to hide his growing animosity. "The female with red hair. My sources say you have her. What have you done with her?"

"Red hair? What are you talking…" Orus's eyes widened.

Rengar smiled triumphantly. "You _do_ know something."

"I swear I don't have her. I tried to buy her but the sale fell through."

"Where is she?"

"Sahar. It's an oasis in the Red Wastes."

"Who tried to sell her to you?"

"The hajara. She tried to sell me the female and her mother."

Satisfaction filled Rengar. After weeks hunting down trails of whispers and dead-end rumors they finally had a location. "Thank you, Orus. You have been most helpful."

Greed swiftly overcame any fear the male held. "I don't suppose there is a reward for this information?" He grinned, his fat mandibles pushing back against his jowls.

Rengar turned away, grabbing the trembling little female by the hand. "You shall receive eternity."

"What?"

The slaver's confusion turned to cries of outrage as Rengar's guards swept in. They silenced his protests, quickly moving into the back of the shop. The music droning from the shop's speakers and swell of the crowd muffled the ensuing screams. He rubbed his aching temples, grateful to be rid of such a dull, loathsome male.

"Why did you kill them?"

Large eyes stared up at him, her red irises and furrowed brow brimming with confusion and fear.

Rengar forced a smile and pet her head. "Don't worry, they won't hurt the other slaves."

The lie set her at ease and she ceased her trembling. He wondered what it must be like to trust so easily. Perhaps that was what his master was attracted to: naivete.

When his guards had finished silencing the last of the witnesses, Rengar gave them the High Clan's seal and ordered them to wait for a clean-up crew. Under no circumstances were the city guard to be involved. This was beyond their jurisdiction and demanded a delicate hand. A massacre was not the most subtle of approaches, but he had no choice. The male hadn't just known about the red-haired female, he'd seemed to understood its meaning. He would send agents to trace the slaver's route to ensure those who'd been unfortunate enough to cross paths with him were ignorant of his find. Otherwise they would meet the God sooner than they'd planned.

Rengar hastened to return to the grand palace, passing the young female off to one of the keepers charged with overseeing the royal concubines.

He strode forward, slaves bowing in his wake. Despite the silver collar clamped around his neck, they acknowledged him as the representative of his master, the aura of his authority surrounding Rengar wherever he went.

The platform carried him higher and higher, humming quietly to a halt when it arrived at the top of the ziggurat. He breathed in the fragrance of sweet perfumes as he disembarked, the scent reminding him of a forest of blossoms before a thunderstorm. Auburn pillars shimmered with golden flecks in the crimson twilight, a warm breeze from the western sea whispering across the soaring ceiling above. He strode forward, passed gardens of silks and the inner throne room, up, up to the very top. Lyres and flutes called out to him, their musicians invisible amidst the golden curtains and flickering torches.

Rengar slowed as he reached his destination, falling to his knees before the sealed door, his mandibles grazing the cool marble floor.

The scanners cleared him and the door spiraled open.

A slave, black holes where its eyes used to be, waited for him on the other side. After Rengar rose, it commanded him to state his business.

"The one called Rengar begs to speak to his master."

"Come."

He followed the blind slave into the inner room, anxiety filling him despite its familiarity. Golden pillars shaped into great trees held the gem-encrusted ceiling aloft. Exotic weapons, art and murals of great warriors decorated the walls. The spices and incense filling the great room were so thick he lost his own scent. The only thing that could make such splendor even more grand were windows, but this was forbidden.

At the sound approaching footsteps, muffled by soft furs lining the stone floor, Rengar could not help but look away. The conditioning every slave of the High Clan went through ensured utter devotion and docility. Aggression towards the masters was suppressed by rigorous behavior modification, drugs administered via collars and even surgery if necessary.

The other slave advanced across the room to be closer to its master in case he required anything, deftly avoiding obstacles it had memorized over the course of its life. Its eyes stared sightlessly ahead once it reached its position, solemn and statuesque. It and others like it had the special privilege to live amongst the members of the heirs of Ashann.

His master's words interrupted his thoughts. "Welcome Rengar. Here to spy on me again?" The amusement in his voice set him at ease. He was in a good mood today.

"I come with news."

"Good news I hope."

He caught of glimpse of his master, regal and handsome and only a few paces away. Conditioning sent a surge of awe and excitement through him. He quickly quashed it in order to focus on his message. "I found her."

"Are you sure?"

"Our contact in Sahar will confirm the truth for us shortly, but I have no doubt of the veracity of the claim. The slaver was all too eager to ask for a reward."

"'Slaver?'" His master's tone carried a sharp edge, but Rengar was not afraid. Not that he could lie to his master if he wanted.

"Saa, the female is a slave. She and her mother were almost sold to him several months ago."

"A slave? Fascinating." He beckoned Rengar to look up and share a drink with him. The shock on his face made his master chuckle. "Rengar, you really must learn to relax. A little wine never hurt anyone." Sharp golden eyes froze him where he stood. "Do not deny me."

He bowed his head as he accepted the goblet proffered to him by the eyeless slave, who bowed low and retreated back into its corner.

Mechanically, Rengar sipped his drink as his master outlined the other tasks he needed taken care of. He was the hand and mask by which his master interacted with the world. Some people even mistook him for an actual member of the High Clan since none had ever been seen in person.

"I believe that's everything. There are other tasks, but the female takes precedence for the moment. As soon as it confirmed that she is in Sahar, I want you pay a visit to the shajara. The celebrations honoring his recent victory will be the perfect excuse. The Red Wastes have always been an unstable region and our support may quell any remnants of dissent."

"It is always wise to reinforce bonds," agreed Rengar.

"I leave the details to you. If you have nothing else, you're dismissed."

As Rengar set his cup aside, he remembered the other piece of news he was supposed to deliver. "There is one more thing, master."

"Oh?"

He bowed his head. "I acquired a young female for you. She's quite unique. I'm confident you'll find her to your liking."

His master flashed him a mischievous smile. "You stole her, didn't you?"

"Iyan, I saved her from an untimely death. Such innocence should not go to waste."

"As always, Rengar, you've served me well. Go now. I eagerly await the fruits of your labor."

Rengar bowed low and backed out of the room, his eyes locked to the floor until the door sealed shut before him. He allowed himself to breath as he straightened, fighting to maintain his composure as his collar sending a heady dose of pleasure and excitement through his veins, triggered by his master's words of praise.

He whirled, his eyes burning bright in the shadows, one thought driving him forward: He would not fail.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I've dilly-dallied with this chapter for months, struggling to finish it, rewriting it, rewriting it again, never happy with the results. So naturally I come back to it weeks later and finish it in a few hours. Writing's a weird process, ain't it? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it :)

**P.S.** In the previous chapter, it was mentioned by Sira that she'd spent the past few months sharing Tharrak's bed. I meant that literally and not as sub-text for intimate relations. Nothing has happened between them physically yet (much to Sira's frustration). Hope that clears that up.


	7. A Decision

**Author's Note:** I know this chapter's not very long, but I had to get the damned thing out the door or otherwise it would continue stewing in my Google Drive until it was "perfect." And let's be honest, fanfics are basically first drafts of novels — if finished. They're never perfect, no matter how much work we put into them. At least now I can get to work on Chapter 8. Enjoy!

* * *

**A Decision**

Heat lazily swirled across the cracked stone, bringing with it the acrid stench of industrial smoke that permeated the southern district of Kuuroch. Harsan huffed in disgust and glanced up at the two suns, sweat dripping down his face as he calculated their position and how long it would take to escape in case unwanted visitors arrived. An old habit. His eyes swept downward and scanned the narrow street, eyeing everyone and everything with suspicion. Passersby returned the favor, curious as to what would compel a stranger like him to venture into this part of the city. His black sword and general surliness however dissuaded them from any thought of pursuing that curiosity.

Harsan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, propping a foot against it. The whole thing was foolish. He couldn't believe she'd talked him into this. If Auran ever found out, he'd flay him alive.

He growled, waving away a fly as it tried to nip blood from his deflated tendrils before glancing at the covered entrance. What was taking so long?

Inside, Ahandra shivered despite the heat. Voices whispered in the corners of her mind, teasing her with images of destruction and pain if she pursued this path. She widened her aching eyes, straining to focus on the chemical concoction the dealer prepped on the low table.

"How much longer?" she croaked.

_Sleep,_ whispered the voices. _So tired… so very tired…_

Her vision swam, the dusky room and rows of bottles and plants crowding high shelves blurring together. If she let go, she would fall into a sweet, dreamless abyss. No more visions, they promised. Deep, peaceful sleep-

_No!_ Ahandra shook her head, her tendrils whipping across her face. She had to be strong. Just a little bit longer and she would be free. "Please… h-hurry."

"Lak'shura, drayari," murmured the dealer. "I wanted to get the dosage just right. You get what you pay for, after all."

The world spun. The voices snarled and begged.

He examined the vial, a slight smile drawing back the jagged scars carved across his face. "And you paid a great deal."

Ahandra slumped forward, offering her arm with the last of her strength. "Do it."

With practiced ease, the male plunged the needle into her vein, the dispenser hissing as amber fluid released into her bloodstream.

Harsan strained to hear anything going on inside, the seconds crawling by. It had been awfully quiet for a while now. He didn't like silence. Silence meant ambushes and dead bodies.

His patience fraying, Harsan decided it was time to check on Ahandra. No matter how bad her nightmares or memory issues, it surely wasn't worth the risk of someone pumping her full of dangerous drugs—

He froze, the curtain over the entrance whispering closed behind him. What had he done?

Harsan ripped his sword out and snarled. "What have you done!?"

The dealer whipped out a plasma rifle from underneath the table, the tri-laser sight pinned against Harsan's chest. "I did what she asked! She knew the risks."

"If she dies, I swear by all the gods, known and unknown, you will pay."

Ahandra sat up, silencing whatever the dealer intended to retort. The two males stared at her, both slowly lowering their weapons in astonishment. She stood, slowly, eyes staring at something beyond the wall only she could see. "We're too late."

Sheathing his sword, Harsan took a step towards her. "Ahandra? Are you… what happened? Your hair. It's… white."

She flicked her gaze to him, molten orange eyes rooting him to the ground. They burned with a light not of this world. "Harsan, take me to the temple. Now."

Harsan feared she'd finally tipped over the edge. He approached cautiously, reaching for her arm. "Let's get you out of here."

Sorrow dimmed the fire in her eyes. "Lak'shura, Harsan."

Harsan lunged a heartbeat too late, he and the dealer collapsing to the floor. A tranquilizer dart clattered to the floor beside him, rolling slowly to a halt a few paces away.

Ahandra stepped over his unconscious form, covered her head and slipped out into the street, disappearing into the crowd.

**\|/**

Pieces clacked and hissed as they danced across the board. Moves and countermoves. She had him, thought Sira. Surely this time she had him. Eagerly, she snapped up one of his metal warriors, only to realize her mistake too late.

Tharrak's metal pieces sliced across the board. _Snick. Snack. Snick._ Three wooden tokens clattered on top of the pile of discarded dead. No warning. No mercy. That was djajin.

But she had no time to mourn her losses. The match could still be salvaged. Perhaps if she… if she moved this piece… yan, this piece… but what if Tharrak moved over here…

Sira furrowed her brow in concentration, doing her best to ignore Tharrak's commentary.

"If you stare any harder, you'll scorch the board."

"But if I melted your warlord, I'd win."

"Not according to the rules," he clicked smugly.

She gritted her fangs, holding back a curse. Stupid rules. Why'd they have to be so complicated?

"Eshe. I'm trying to think."

He rattled, but conceded, propping his chin in one hand.

In the end, Tharrak was victorious, Sira unable to mount a suitable defense to counter the ensuing onslaught her one mistake had wrought.

She sighed as she cleaned up the pieces. "Will I ever win?"

Tharrak regarded her for a moment. Sira pictured him smirking behind his mask. "Tomorrow? Yan."

"What about the day after that?"

"Yan."

"Perhaps the next day, then?"

"Iyan."

They went back and forth like that, Sira enjoying their traditional after-game banter. She would always ask when she would win, and Tharrak would dismiss it. Never. Impossible. Only in an alternate universe.

Occasionally, her unbroken losing streak frustrated her, but as time wore on and she improved, she found herself less and less interested in the face beneath the mask. Would knowing what he really looked like change who Tharrak was or how she felt?

She didn't think so. The game was more about spending time. The only reason she paid as much attention as she did was to prolong their time together. A longer game meant longer conversations. There was just one part of it all that inflicted endless misery upon her.

Tharrak didn't seem to reciprocate her attraction.

Night after night they shared the same bed. And night after night she wrestled with the need to speak her mind and the fear of rejection. Did he struggle as she did?

The question burned her fangs, but she clamped them closed and put away the game.

He bid her goodnight and sealed himself away in his workshop. The demand for masks had skyrocketed after the shajara's pronouncement and the celebration was mere days away. He barely ate and she couldn't remember the last time he'd slept.

Sira sighed softly and began to extinguish the lights around the room. She wasn't sure which was more lonely: going to sleep by herself, or laying next to a male who was indifferent to her.

The swish of a door opening made her pause and she watched as her mother appeared from around the corner, a jar of oil in her hands. "I finished softening my hair. Do you need any?"

Sira thought about it and then nodded. She had washed, but her tendrils were feeling a bit dried out.

"I'd like to do it, if you don't mind," her mother asked when Sira reached for the jar.

"You don't have to."

"I want to." Her mother offered up an anxious smile.

Sira relented and followed her back into her room. She wondered what was wrong as she knelt on the floor and removed her head covering.

"How was your game?" The scent of oil wafted through the air as her mother poured it into her palms and rubbed it over her hands.

"Good. I almost won." She closed her eyes as her mother's hands slid over her tendrils, her roots tingling with bliss at the soothing sensation. Her mother chirred, but said nothing, her hands gently working their way through her hair.

Memories of when she was younger stirred, of quiet nights like this one, her mother oiling her hair after a quick wash or telling her stories late into the night. "I miss this," she murmured.

"Tharrak should be doing this."

Sira stiffened and opened her eyes. "What?"

"Have you offered to do his? I think he misses some spots."

Sira turned, eyeing her mother with incredulity. "Who are you?"

Her mother chittered and rotated her head to face forward. "I am your mother."

"But I thought you didn't like me sleeping with him?" She winced. It sounded a lot dirtier when she said it out loud. Especially to her mother.

"I don't. It's just…" She paused her ministrations, letting out a long sigh.

Sira turned and faced her mother again, watching as worry creased her brow.

"I didn't like the bet you two made. I was afraid you'd be hurt. That you'd be forced to endure what I had to. Even then, I'm ashamed to say I was afraid to go against him. I never spoke up, even though he'd given us permission to speak freely.

But I've seen the way you look at him when you think neither of us are watching. The way you smile when you two work together. And then I realized I didn't have to be afraid for you. You deserve a chance at a better life and I think Tharrak is that chance."

Sira gaped, blood slowly flushing her cheeks. "Nana, are you saying you want me to…?"

"I'm saying you're a good match."

Sira sputtered, unable to think of an appropriate response. Finally, she managed to blurt out, "But he doesn't want me! He might-," she lowered her voice and glanced down the hall, "-prefer males or perhaps he's been... tamed." She gestured at her groin area, too embarrassed to verbalize the taboo word. She'd yet to "accidentally" catch him in the washroom. He was strangely private about bathing and nearly choked on his dinner one night when Sira had asked if he would like her to clean him.

He'd quickly set her straight on the matter.

Her mother snorted. "I've also seen the way he stares at you when he thinks neither of us are watching. A mask doesn't conceal everything."

"Well then why he is so distant?" Sira scrambled to her feet and frantically paced the room, a million thoughts and worries racing through her head.

"Secrets."

Sira stopped pacing and gave her mother a curious look. "Secrets?"

"He seems like a person who has many."

"More than what he confessed at the trial?"

Her mother looked away and nodded.

Sira thought it odd, but the prospect of presenting herself to Tharrak consumed her. When? Where? How? She voiced these questions, wishing she had more experience in these matters than a few brief, drunken tumbles in her adolescence.

Her mother grabbed her hands as she drew near and stilled her. She brought them together, gently squeezing them for reassurance. "Not now. He is too tired and focused on his work to consider such things. It should be during the festival. That way we have enough time to find you something to wear and figure out what to say."

Her daughter smiled and hugged her. "Get some rest, my other heart," Kahet said softly. Sira practically bounced down the hall in excitement as she left for her and Tharrak's room, Kahet waiting until her door shut to close her own.

She let out a shaky breath, happiness and anxiety battling for control. After weeks of waiting to see if the impasse between the two would break, she'd finally decided to step in and stir the waters. The ripples of her actions were now beyond her control.

Had she done the right thing? Was this what a good mother would do?

_It's what your mother would have done._

The ugly thought poisoned her excitement, creating a knot of fear in her stomach.

Kahet turned off her light and huddled under the thick blankets, hoping sleep would bury her personal demons. It would work, she told herself. Her daughter would have the happiness she never did. That's all she wanted.


	8. A Festival

**I can't even remember how long it's been since I've updated, but I do know it's been an exceedingly long time and I thank you for your patience. Enjoy &amp; Review :)**

* * *

**A Festival**

The excitement in the air was almost palpable, an electric charge surging as evening drew near, Feiren and Iren casting an orange hue across the humming oasis. From across the Red Wastes and beyond, clans poured into Sahar until it was filled to the brim. Yautja of every creed and color barked, jostled, chittered and caroused, an eager murmur swelling to a deafening rumble as sweltering day gave way to cool night. Bonfires roared, hot flames licking the starry skies, their heat boiling and flowing over in fountains of golden light. Coin and spicy blood wine flowed freely, drunken revelers staggering through the crowd, howling bawdy songs before they stumbled into the next tavern.

Thick crowds packed the market district, children screeching as they weaved through the long legs of adults, fanged monsters with fluttering paper tails chasing behind them on leashes of string. A small pack veered towards one of the brightly lit booths, their howls turning to excited chitters as wide eyes darted from one mask to the next.

Sira smiled as she spied the short pups grasping at the edge of the stall and straining on tiptoes to peer into her shop, cooing and clicking over which ones they liked best. Tharrak had worked night and day designing each pattern, the machines transforming molten metal into fearsome heroes, ugly monsters and serene spirits. They shimmered in the light of the torches and lume lamps tied to trees and awnings, luring in buyers for their coin.

She offered them the smallest masks she could, the metal so light Sira thought they might float away at the mere hint of wind.

"How much?" The little female looked up at her expectantly, while the males grubbled through their pockets for the remains of any coins their mothers had loaned them. They turned their pockets inside out, shaking loose sand and and an errant rock, but nothing that glinted with the shajara's crest of chrovauk and flame.

Looking around to make sure she was alone, Sira slipped them each a mask. Before they could so much as gasp in delight she shushed them, smiling conspiratorially with the little female before shooing them away. They tied their masks on and ran, disappearing into the crowd.

"_Remind me, again…_"

Sira flinched and whirled around, Tharrak standing behind like a shadow that had detached itself from the walls.

"_What is the penalty for the stealing from one's master?"_ He stepped forward, hands behind his back.

Sira's hands tugged at her fingers nervously despite her sheepish smile. "Depends on the value of the object stolen."

He huffed and relaxed his shoulders, all pretense of anger gone. "_I guess I could just take the losses from your wages."_ Sira nearly rolled her eyes. Slaves weren't allowed wages. Tharrak liked teasing her this way, appearing out of nowhere and pretending to be disgruntled or displeased, hands held behind a rigid spine and looming countenance.

_I could repay you in other ways._

She stared at him, eyes drifting to his neck and wide shoulders where the skin was exposed beneath his cloak, her mandibles twitching at the thought of caressing them. The thought itched to become words, her tongue practically burning. She buried the thought instead and said, "Have you seen my mother?"

"I'm here." Her mother appeared from the back, sliding past Tharrak with a large basket filled with something warm that smelled delicious.

"Are those…?"

"Hotcakes dipped in honey." Her mother beamed as she unwrapped them. "Nothing attracts customers like good food. Once I start giving these out for free, half of the stock should be gone by dawn."

"Then what will I do?" asked Sira. She hoped her question sounded natural and resisted the urge to look over at Tharrak.

"Well, you've been here for the last few days. And Tharrak has worked so hard. I thought it time I take over for a night."

Tharrak rumbled. "_That's not necessary. I can_—"

Her mother shook her head. "Yan, I need you to look after Sira and make sure nothing happens to her."

Before either of them could protest, she gently shoved them into the throng and like grains of sand in a windstorm, they were carried along, warm bodies and rumbling voices swirling and tumbling around them. Sira looped her arms around one of Tharrak's, the thick crowds giving her ample justification. If he seemed bothered by this, it didn't show.

The smell of so many yautja overwhelmed her, ten thousand scents blending into a heady musk that permeated the very air she breathed. Occasionally, another smell would cut through, sharp and irresistible. The savory meat pits, filled with skewered animals slow-roasted over coals for hours. Crisp, honeyed nuts that tickled the tongue. The soft, juicy pulp of roasted fruit, a dozen varieties imported from across the world. Whiffs of acrid smoke from the thunderflares exploding across the night sky.

Tharrak let her guide him from one food stall to the next, insisting he try some of the more exotic foods rarely seen in Sahar. She ate to her heart's content, stuffing herself until she thought she'd burst. When she could eat no more, they stopped to watch some street performers re-enact the tragic love story of Ashande and Saherezan.

Shivering beneath her cloak, Sira sat as close as she dared to Tharrak, trying to think of the right thing to say. Her mother had seen to it that they were together and away from the stall. Now it was up to her. And the thought terrified her. Everything she'd planned on saying suddenly seemed ridiculous. Sira's stomach twisted into knots and she began to regret eating so much. With each heartsbeat, she felt her resolve crumbling, doubts crowding her already anxious thoughts.

Then, to her surprise, Tharrak leaned in. "_This was my mother's favorite story. She used to tell it to us when we were younger to warn us against pride and violence. She told us the versions we hear of now are mere shadows of the truth. It was never about destiny versus desire or the conflict of the male and female spirits."_

Her fears retreated, replaced with a hungry curiosity. Tharrak revealed little about himself or his past. "So what is the truth?"

"_That the greatest enemy a person will face is themself."_

The thought quieted Sira as she watched the actors strut across the stage, bright lume lamps lighting their every gesture. Tharrak volunteering such personal information had caught her off guard. She looked away from the play, eager to learn more about him. "'Us?' Do you have siblings?"

He turned away, his gaze directed towards the backs of the spectators in front of them. "_Saa."_

"How many?"

When he didn't answer, Sira chastised herself for pushing him, wringing her hands as she tried to come up with something else to talk about. "Would you, um, like to watch the tournament?"

"_If that is what you wish."_

Defeat hung over her as she followed after him, and despite her promise not to drink she ended up downing a full bottle of honeyed wine while watching the tournament. Fighters clashed, wrestling over bloody sand, the slap of flesh against flesh and the crunch of bones lost beneath the roar of the crowd. Sira couldn't help but compare the final group of fighters to Tharrak and find them lacking. Tharrak could easily win the tournament if he wanted to.

"_You think so?"_

Sira flushed. Had she spoken her thoughts aloud? She looked down at the bottle in her hands, a few sips still sloshing along the bottom, trying to come up with something clever. "I think... I'm drunk."

"_Hmm."_ He took the bottle from her and pulled her away from the noise and glaring lights. "_We should go. It's late, and Kahet will start worrying about you."_

Sira grabbed his arm as she swayed, chittering when her legs nearly gave out. As they disentangled themselves from the throng, an icy breeze caressed her face, momentarily clearing her thoughts and reminding her why she was out here in the first place. _Keep it together, Sira. Focus! _But her dizzy euphoria refused to leave, her mind a muddled rush of excitement and nerves. Her hearts thumped inside her chest like a war drum, urgent and unrelenting. It was now or never. She had to come up with a new plan and fast.

The glint of the wine bottle caught her eye and a devilish grin curled her mandibles. She swiped at it. Tharrak stumbled to a stop as he swung it out of her reach, Sira clinging to his chest as world spun around her in streaks of red, orange and white. She chittered, playfully pretending to reach for it again, Tharrak holding it as far away as possible. "Either you drink it or give the rest to me," she teased. "'Tis is a sin against the Water Goddess to waste good wine."

"_Is that so?"_

She grinned. "Saa."

"_Then I shall not waste it."_ He popped off his rebreather, heat and steam billowing around his mandibles in the frigid night air. Sira took his rebreather from his grasp, Tharrak hesitating only a moment before letting go of it and wrapping his free arm around her shoulders. One, two, three gulps slid down his dark throat, Sira swallowing at the thought of caressing his smooth skin with her tongue. Tharrak chirred appreciatively, steam billowing between his mandibles as he exhaled, the scent of tart wine and musk filling her lungs and sending her head spinning. She clung tighter, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her fingers in his tendrils.

"Tharrak," she whispered huskily.

"Sira, what are you do-"

Her mandibles desperately clasped against his, squeezing and caressing his fangs and soft inner mouth with her own. He tasted of wine and meat and metal. She could feel his pulse racing beneath his skin as she caressed his exposed neck, skin normally cool and stiff now pliable and warm. Slowly, like frost melting beneath the first rays of the sun, he gave in, returning her passionate kisses with hesitant ones of his own.

Glass shattered and Tharrak flinched away. Sira tried to pull him back down, but he grabbed her by her shoulders and pushed her away.

She swayed, dizzy and confused. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Still gripping her by her shoulders, he merely shook his head. "I can't… I can't do this," he panted.

Fear curdled inside her stomach. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. "Because I'm a slave? Masters take slaves all the time in Sahar . No one would care." She tried to step towards him again, but Tharrak tightened his grip, keeping her at arm's length.

"Stop it, Sira," he hissed, his voice cracking like a whip against the cold air. "That's an order."

The world spun in sickening streaks of orange and violent. Not like this. Not this way. She stared at the ground, arms clasped against her chest, the warmth of his hands vanishing as he released her. What had she done? How could she have been so stupid?

With a sharp hiss, Tharrak's mask, which she had dropped, snapped back into place. The final twist of the knife buried in her gut. She covered her mouth as she choked back the bile building in her throat, mumbling "I should go" as she turned away. Sorrow threatened to drag her down as she turned down one street and then another, haunted by each shadow and the thought that she was alone and he wasn't coming after her. Bitter reality set in by the time she found the stall and looked into her mother's eyes.

Tharrak didn't want her. And never would.

**\|/**

Tharrak's legs wouldn't move. He watched her leave. Let her fade into the light and noise without a word. He could still feel her kiss, fiery and desperate, pulsing through his mandibles. She tasted of wine and honey and perfume. And that one taste had nearly stripped him of control.

If that bottle hadn't broken…

Tharrak looked down at the broken glass glittering across the stones, remembering the look on her face, the smell of shame as he ordered her to stop.

"Tharrak, you stupid bastard," he muttered.

When he finally found his legs, he did not go home. She would be there. In pain. Because of him.

His feet carried him to the doorstep of the pleasure garden, The Red Dagger, the scent of oils and lust heavy in the air tonight. Inside, slaves awaited to carry out every desire imaginable. He came here often. Had to. It was the only way to maintain control. But the thought her waiting for him in his bed, dejected and alone, rooted him to the earth even as his urges demanded release.

But did she really want him? Or was it the drink?

He moved away before one of the door girls noticed him staring and tried to pull him in. Going in felt… wrong.

Instead, Tharrak slipped into a random bar and tried to find solace at the bottom of a bitter liquor drum. _Go after her._ Drink. _You just need release._ Drink. _She doesn't really want you. _Drink. _Not if she knew what you really are. _Another drink. _You're pathetic._ Another. Half-a-dozen drums in, his thoughts finally quieted, leaving him a melancholic stupor.

He didn't notice the male grabbing a stool next to him, crimson eyes sweeping over him with intense interest. "There are only two things to make a male drink like that: regret and females. Which is it?"

"Both," mumbled Tharrak as he took another sip, the bitter brew now smooth and cool against his throat. The older male chuffed and ordered a himself drink, his body still angled towards Tharrak. Small tendrils prickled in warning along the back of Tharrak's neck, but he ignored them. He could take on several opponents at once and always come out on top. Even drunk, one old yautja wouldn't be a problem.

"You'd think with a reputation like yours," said the elder as the bartender slid him a glass, "You'd be swimming in females and coin."

"My reputation?"

"Word travels quickly when a darkblade warrior takes out several royal guards and bounty hunters in broad daylight. And gets away with it."

Tharrak reached for his sword, but the elder already had a knife against his throat and a hand locked on his wrist. For an elder his grip was iron tight. "No need for that. I'm not here to kill you."

"Then what do you want?" Tharrak squinted, there was something familiar about this male.

The elder cocked his head, long, grey dreadlocks swaying to the side. "You really don't remember me, do you?"

"Should I?" Tharrak relaxed his arm and the elder withdrew his knife. The bartender pulled his hand away from from the alarm hidden beneath the bar, sighing in relief that he didn't have to call the guards again today and clean up more blood.

"I'll let you figure it out." He took a sip, hissing with pleasure. "They make it sharp here, don't they?"

"Who are you?" Tharrak looked him up and down, blinking slowly as he tried to concentrate. A difficult feat when the far wall wouldn't stay still.

"I'm a collector, interested in rare weapons. Naturally, a darkblade this far east piqued my interest. I came to Sahar hoping to strike a deal. I went to your shop, but you weren't there."

"And you just happened to find me?"

"Saa, actually. Perhaps the God does have a sense of humor."

The dizziness made it hard to concentrate. The elder looked familiar. Was he… could he be…?

Tharrak's gut clenched as the truth dawned on him. "You can't be."

The elder grunted and took another sip.

"Prove it to me," Tharrak demanded.

The elder sighed and unsheathed his sword a few inches above the hilt. Tharrak felt like he'd been doused with ice water as the black blade slid back out of sight.

"Uncle."

"So you finally remember your old Uncle Harsan?" The elder smirked. "I wasn't looking specifically for you, but I'm glad I finally found you. There are some things you need to know, Zeyin. Things about your family."

Harsan's smile was gone, and before he looked away Tharrak thought he caught a glimpse of shame and bone-deep tiredness normally hid from the world. He clenched his sword fist into a ball, afraid of what he might hear, but unable to walk away. He wondered if his sins had finally returned to haunt him.


	9. A Message

**Since it's been so long, I thought a summary of previous chapters might be in order:**

**Chapter 1 **\- Sira, a slave, finds a mysterious yautja (Tharrak) in the desert while searching for the Well of the Dead for Hajara Raika. Instead of getting the water, she saves him. Raika tries to punish her by selling Sira's mother, Kahet, but Tharrak buys them instead.

**Chapter 2** \- Tharrak rents out a home/workshop to make masks. Sira takes him up on a bet that resets each time they play djajin: If he wins, she keeps his bed warm. If she wins, he has to take off his mask. *scandalous*

**Chapter 3** \- Shajara Israzal and his warriors return to Sahar after many months of battle. Sira and Tharrak are attacked by a trio of bounty hunters. After surviving, they are arrested.

**Chapter 4** \- Ahandra, now a seer, has a vision of Kuuroch being destroyed and Zaiyra being poisoned by a serpent. Also, she may be slowly going insane...

**Chapter 5** \- Sira and Tharrak stand trial before the shajara after several days of interrogation and torture. Tharrak is acquitted. Sira implicates Raika for attempted murder of the shajara's second wife after learning she may also be responsible for the murders of Ona the water priestess and Erefet, her friend.

**Chapter 6** \- In Dar'Isan, Rengar, a slave of the High Clan, follows rumors pointing to a red-haired slave in Sahar.

**Chapter 7** \- Ahandra uses an experimental drug and gains control of her visions, then disappears. Sira, with encouragement from her mother, decides she wants to pursue Tharrak.

**Chapter 8** \- Sira confesses her feelings for Tharrak and they briefly kiss, but he rejects her. Afterward, he runs into his Uncle Harsan, who reveals Tharrak's true name: Zeyin.

* * *

**A Message**

* * *

"What do you mean, 'she's missing?'" Tharrak slurred. His hand gripped his glass so tightly he could feel hairline fractures slithering across its rigid surface.

Harsan sighed, unable to look him the eyes. "It means what it means, Zeyin. Ahandra, your mother, knocked me unconscious with barely a touch and disappeared. We — your father, the shan'ra, the priests and others — searched every part of Kuuroch and more."

He shook his head. "And we never found a trace. Ten years of searching and—" Harsan took several deep gulps of his drink, slamming the glass on the wooden countertop and letting loose a snarl. "—nothing."

Tharrak sat back in disbelief. Ten years. His mother had been gone for ten years, almost as long as he'd been gone. "You don't think… she went looking for me, do you?"

Harsan shook his head again. "Iyan. She missed you. Said she often had dreams about you. But I think it had something to do with her visions. Ahandra couldn't control them, couldn't sleep, barely ate. She became obsessed with regaining control, believing something was going to happen, something terrible. Until finally one day, she convinced me to take her to see a dealer who possessed an experimental drug that might help her."

Harsan rubbed his scalp, shoulders slumped in shame. "I-I couldn't say no. She was wasting away. Forgetting things. Faces, names, days. Auran wasn't around — he didn't want to see what was happening. Couldn't see it. When she asked me to take her, to help her, he was on a mission with no way to reach him. I gave in, thinking I could protect her. The drug seemed to work, but she said someone was coming for her and that... it was too late."

"Too late?"

Harsan shrugged. "I've looked through the records she kept of her visions. Most of it doesn't make any sense to me. But it makes me think she might still be alive, which is the only reason Auran didn't kill me after he found out what happened."

Questions swirled through Tharrak's muddled mind. So much had happened after he'd run away. Somehow he thought that after he'd left everything would just go on without him. _Yet another reason you're a fool_, he told himself.

They sat in silence for quite some time, nursing their drinks and avoiding each other's gaze. When Tharrak did glance over at his uncle, he could see that the warrior's age had finally caught up with him. Grey colored his tendrils to the roots. Patches of discoloration streaked his skin beneath the myriad of thick scars. He looked worn, like a blade dulled from too many battles.

Harsan sighed as the bartender refilled his glass. "You know, for a moment, I thought you were your father."

Tharrak snorted. "My father hated me."

"All the same, there's more of him in you than he would ever admit. I think that worried him."

Harsan downed the rest of his drink. Tharrak followed suit, the numbing liquor warming his throat and limbs. Raucous laughter and the smell of meat wafted through the air, fists slamming against wood as yautja called for more drinks.

"Auran, your father, he… he didn't know what to do. He wouldn't listen…"

Tharrak tried to concentrate on what his uncle was saying but the noise, the energy thundering, vibrating through the air was making him nauseous. He couldn't hold it back. So many people crowded together. Shouting, growling, fighting, mating. So much light. So many sounds. Everywhere. Spinning.

A hand grabbed him, Harsan steadying him. "Hang on, Zeyin. I've got you."

"Whaja doin?" Tharrak slurred. He tried pushing Harsan away, but his arms wouldn't respond and his legs felt like jelly. "Stop."

Harsan stopped and the world ceased spinning enough for Tharrak to realize they were outside and that Harsan was shouldering his drunken frame to keep him upright.

"What happened? Where… where am I?"

"Well, after you decided to throw up all over the bar, the barkeeper thought it best we leave straight away. So I took care of the tab and now we're slowly, very slowly, making our way back to your place for the night." Harsan chuckled. "Now this is where you take after your mother."

Tharrak staggered, doing his best to walk, only his legs didn't want to cooperate. "Huh?"

"She was a lightweight when it came to alcohol, too."

"If I weren't so drunk, old man, I'd tell you to go—"

Harsan growled a warning. "Careful, son. I'll let you get away with 'old man,' but I won't tolerate disrespect."

Tharrak chittered and patted his uncle on the chest as they limped forward like a three-legged chrovauk. "You're the best, uncle."

"Yak'sallah. Don't start getting weird on me or I'll leave you in an alleyway for the rest of the night."

A chill wind blew over them, the bitter scent of fuel grazing Tharrak's throat. Some of the stupor drifted away, enough for him to remember what had happened before he blacked out.

"Uncle Harsan?"

"Hm?"

"What were you saying about my father?"

Harsan huffed. "That is another conversation for when you are sober. And, yan, before you ask, he's not dead… as far as I know."

They turned down an empty street, Tharrak grateful to be away from the crowds. His head was starting hurt again from all the light and noise. Even now, in the distance, it was a burning ball of pulsing energy, radiating around everything like a star bleeding plasma into the void.

Symbols flashed across his screen. Glaring and painful. He switched them off.

Harsan halted, jarring Tharrak. "Hm, what is it, uncle?"

"Hush, boy."

"But—"

His uncle hissed. "Not now. We're surrounded."

Zeyin staggered as adrenaline surged through him, hearts hammering as he looked at them in disbelief.

They were surrounded. Ten armed guards loomed over them from the rooftops, silent but for the dull thunder of their hearts ringing in Tharrak's head. One by one, each dropped down into the alleyway, the sand shuddering around their feet with each impact. Five behind. Five in front. They were trapped. Harsan slowly set Zeyin down, propping him up against a wall, before returning his attention their aggressors.

"Who sent you?"

None of the mysterious warriors answered. They were dressed in shadow armor, long spikes fanning across the tops of their identical masks, each possessing a false, gaping mouth filled with vocal distorters and amplifiers. From elbow to fingertip, they wore armored gloves made of metal and leather, each finger ending in razor-sharp shock claws. In fact, shock guards and rare alloys covered all of the vital areas on their bodies. These weren't bounty hunters, Tharrak realized.

Harsan growled, hand itching for his sword at his side. "What do you want?"

Even in his alcoholic stupor, he could sense Harsan's trepidation, the old warrior's nervous system humming with anxious energy. Tharrak silently seethed at how useless he was. Too drunk to notice the signs they were being followed. Too slow to be of any help in a fight. All he could do was watch. Helpless. It was infuriating.

The warriors in front of Harsan parted, a figure emerging from the shadows and into the opening. The invisibility cloak crackled as it dissolved, revealing a well-dressed male with a silver slave collar sealed around his throat.

Strange, thought Tharrak.

Then, Harsan sunk to his knees and bowed, forehead nearly touching the earth.

Tharrak cocked his head, flabbergasted. Harsan was bowing to a slave? He swiveled his lolling head, resting it against the wall as he tried to understand what exactly was going on.

The strange yautja kept his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed them with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. "Do you know who I am?"

They answered at the same time, Harsan's voice low and soft, Tharrak's slurry and angry.

"Saa."

"Yan."

The slave's eyes snapped towards Tharrak, a mandible twitched in irritation. He angled his body towards him, the kneeling warrior at his feet an afterthought. "So... this is the infamous mask maker I've heard so much about. I'm afraid you don't do the tales justice, however."

A low rumble crawled up Tharrak's chest. Arrogant ksek'rot.

"I have a message for you, mask maker. I have taken the liberty of purchasing your slaves. In fact, you've been compensated for twice their value. Quite a bargain, really."

"They're not for sale!" Tharrak blurted, quickly staggering to his feet.

Two shock lances punched him in the gut and slammed him into the wall, Tharrak convulsing as shards of electricity screamed through his body. When the slave finally motioned for the guards to release him, he slumped back to the ground, groaning in pain.

"Since you don't know who I am, I will overlook your transgression this once." His next words dripped with quiet menace. "But do anything like that again and your friend here will die."

Harsan hadn't moved. It was as if he'd turned to stone.

Tharrak winced, pain and alcohol blurring his normally fine-tuned senses. "Who… who are you?"

"A servant. That is all you need to know."

"S-Sira—"

"Is no longer yours. As I said, you have been compensated for twice their worth. Which is more than you deserve. Were it up to me, you would already be dead." The slave practically spat out the last word.

"You can't." Tharrak shifted, struggling and failing to stand.

The whine of supercharging plasma cut through the freezing night air and Tharrak stilled. A guard pressed the gun's chamber against Harsan's skull, daring him to make a move.

"I've killed yautja for less," hissed the mysterious figure. "I promised not to kill you, but that doesn't mean I have to let this one live. Perhaps you need a lesson, mask maker."

The whine of the plasma gun grew louder.

Tharrak shook his head "Yan. He doesn't have anything to do with this. He's just… just a client."

"And yet he seems prepared to die. Quite brave, for 'just a client.'"

The male observed them for several moments, weighing what to do with them, letting the tension linger. Finally, he sighed and waved off his guards. "Consider yourself lucky, mask maker, that I am bound by oath to let you continue wandering the world for a little while longer. Payment has already been transferred to your account. Thank you for being so… accommodating on such short notice. My master will appreciate it."

With that, the male and his heavily armored retinue left, disappearing into the night.

Harsan sat up on his heels, letting loose a hissing sigh of relief. "By Ashann and all our ancestors…"

Thoughts swirled through Tharrak's mind. His mother. His father. Harsan. The slave who did not act like a slave. But burning through them all was one thought: Sira.

Tharrak struggled to stand, sinking his claws into the stone as he pulled himself up to his feet. Harsan rose, calling after him as the young yautja staggered away.

"Zeyin… Zeyin!"

Harsan grabbed him when he didn't answer. "Stop, Zeyin!"

Tharrak shoved his hands away, anger burning through the pain in his skull and chest. "Iyan. I can't let them take her!"

Snarling, Harsan slammed Tharrak against the cold stone wall, pinning him in place with his forearm. "Stop and think, Zeyin. Drunk or not, you know they're already gone. Look at me. Look at me! That yautja you nearly pissed off is not just any slave with a fancy collar. That was one of the High Clan's primes, a high-ranking slave worth more than a thousand lowborn freemen like yourself."

"But he took Sira." Tharrak's voice cracked. His fists shook with anger. "He took her."

"Saa," Harsan released Tharrak from his hold, steadying him with one hand. "He took her."

"But why? Why does the High Clan want them?"

Harsan growled softly and looped an arm under Tharrak's shoulder. "I don't know. And we won't find out tonight. Less talking, more walking. We'll figure it out in the morning."

Numbness gripped Tharrak as they trudged forward. He didn't see the city pass by, nor feel the icy chill of the desert's wind. All he could think of was the last moment he saw her, humiliated and alone, fading into the crowd. He'd snapped at her, sent her away. A terrible thought lodged itself inside his mind: That he would never see her again or have a chance to explain everything.

Regret weighed on him like a heavy stone, anger the only thing fueling his heavy, uneven steps towards the empty house waiting for him.

_Sira… I'll find you. I promise I'll find you._


	10. A Kiss

**Previously: **Harsan tells Tharrak (Zeyin) that his mother, Ahandra, has been missing for nearly 10 years. After they leave the bar, they are confronted by a slave and a retinue of warriors from the High Clan. The slave tells them he's purchased Sira and Kahet, and that he's bound by oath to let Tharrak live… for now.

* * *

**Pronunciation:**

**Ga'oul** \- gah'OOL - one of three moons orbiting Ashann

**Izuren** \- ih-ZOO-rin

**Khoru** \- KOH-roo

**sa'eran** \- sa'EIR-an - "my love"

**Tethris** \- TETH-riss

**V'kora** \- v'KOHR-ah

* * *

**A Kiss**

* * *

_**Ten Years Ago…**_

Her thoughts were interrupted by a throat clearing and she looked up to see the last person she'd expected in her quarters. Gaidulus, tall and stoic, as if he were hewn from the very stone of the temple itself. He was as wise as any of the elders and as calm as the meditation pools he spent so much of his time in. She had never seen him lose his temper, not even once. And yet his dispassionate composure frustrated her to no end. Even now, he stood several paces away, careful to maintain a respectful distance.

"Gaidulus-kai. What are you doing here?"

"I heard Ahandra attacked you. I wanted to ask you myself what happened in order to quickly put to rest any false rumors."

Whatever flicker of hope Zaiyra had held that he'd come for her sake was quickly doused. Gaidulus was practical, the well-being and harmony of the ka'ii and its servants foremost in his mind. The memory of Ahandra lunging at her, hissing about serpents and danger flared inside her mind. She quickly squashed it.

"Iyan. Nothing happened. She had a vision and fainted, that's all." The white lie tasted sour on her tongue.

Gaidulus, his expression masked in neutrality, clasped his hands behind his back. "As you say." It was her only clue that he was skeptical of her story, but Zaiyra would not speak ill of Ahandra. Plenty of elders could do that for her. Some of them even had the gall to continue to refer to the seer as "thras'ka" in Zaiyra's presence. After everything her friend had done for this city. After everything she had sacrificed.

"Are you ready?"

The high priestess looked at herself in the holo-mirror, layers of rainbow-colored silk cascading from her shoulders down to her feet. Her acolytes had cooed at how beautiful she was, but she could not see it. She could only see the naïve little girl that had foolishly opened her hearts up, only to realize after many years that the male she cared about most felt nothing for her.

"Saa," she whispered, her thumb rubbing the faded scar on her left palm, the memory of their vows vivid and clear.

It had hurt when she had drawn the blade over her skin, but she'd put on her bravest face. She was going to be a kai after all. Gaidulus had stood next to her at the bonding ceremony, tall and imposing and glittering in the firelight, his arms, legs, and tendrils banded in gold. They had both worn matching purple robes, the loose, flowing silk draped over their shoulders and belted at the waist to hang to between their legs. As their blood burned in offering to the One, Gaidulus had drawn aside his long cape and knelt before her, offering his bleeding hand to her. Shyly, she'd placed her hand in his, her splayed fingers barely reaching the edges of his palm. They'd held each other's gaze as the priest and priestess wrapped their hands together and proclaimed them bonded in the sight of the One and the crowd. She barely knew him, but a duty to her fallen sisters and the previous female kai compelled her to join with him. He was a good kai, she'd heard. Patient and wise. She knew she would learn much from him, just as she had from Asharah.

Zaiyra glanced at his image in the holo-mirror, quickly turning it off when their eyes met. To be a kai was to stand apart from all others, even another kai, she thought as passed by him and exited her chambers.

She pushed aside all thoughts of Gaidulus and Ahandra once she arrived at the landing site atop the pyramid, nodding to the assembly as she took her place in the center. Elders and priests surrounded her and Gaidulus in a semi-circle several rows deep. Their acolytes - her three, his two - stood to either side of them. Above, clouds passed over the golden and crimson eyes of Feiren and Iren, casting deep shadows and glimmering beams of light onto the lake surrounding the temple island.

A horn, long and low, bellowed across the windy air, the sonorous note immediately followed by a deep shadow that blotted out the two suns. The great ship silently sailed overhead and, with a grace that belied its large size, the ray-like vessel swung sideways and gently coasted to a halt above the landing platform.

Zaiyra took a deep breath as the doors parted and guards in crimson cloaks and sunset armor filed out in two long lines that stretched from the ship to a mere few paces away, ruby masks glittering in the sunlight. As one, they turned and faced each other, stamping their glaives in unison against the onyx stone.

_So many guards, _she thought with some disappointment. It did not bode well for this first meeting if the Eastern ka'ii distrusted them this much. The last thing Kuuroch could afford was a religious war. They would have few allies if it came to that.

Movement caught her eye, a young priest dressed in red and gold with a small retinue of lesser priests and slaves sweeping down the smooth walkway. He strode toward them, his steps confident and light. As he drew closer, she could see blood tattoos decorating his arms and chest, the raised flesh dyed a deep crimson over his olive green skin. His tendrils clinked as he bowed, each one tipped with gold and loosely bound into a topknot.

"Gaidulus-kai. Zaiyra-kai." His head remained bowed. "Churande-kai sends his deepest regrets at being unable to meet you in person. He has been taken by a sudden illness that has left him without voice or strength. Knowing how important this meeting was, however, he sent me in his stead. I am Khoru, his right hand. He asks that you hear my words as his words, see my deeds as his deeds."

The rows of elders and priests behind her muttered in confusion behind them, unsure whether to be angry at this unexpected development. The meeting of the Eastern and Western kais had taken many years to implement, each side declaring the other heretics.

"Why were we not informed of this?" asked Gaidulus.

The young priest straightened. "The kai…" His eyes met Zaiyra's and he hesitated. The priest quickly cleared his throat before looking back to Gaidulus. "Um… he did not wish to delay this meeting. He feared death may take him at any moment and said too much would be lost otherwise."

"I see," rumbled Gaidulus. "Then I welcome you Khoru, voice of Churande. May the One smile on our endeavors." As he bowed, so did Zaiyra and the elders and priests.

When she lifted her eyes, Khoru was watching her, a smirk tugging his mandibles to one side. Before she could ask what he found so amusing, Gaidulus drew him away to greet the elders and eldresses.

_**Five Years Ago...**_

The silk gown clung to her curves, leaving little to the imagination, her smooth chest exposed to the humid air for everyone to admire. Zaiyra growled softly and tore the silk gown off, flinging it into the corner with the dozen of other outfits she'd tried on and rejected. Too obvious. She needed a look that was simple. Regal. She glanced at the sunset yellow dress she'd just tossed, remembering how she'd once worn such things to try and woo Gaidulus. They'd gather dust in her closet until today.

_Today… _She flexed her mandibles, suppressing a shudder of eagerness. She had to make the right impression.

Zaiyra turned to her wardrobe, tapping her mandibles against her fangs one at a time as she considered her options. Her eyes wandered over each of her outfits, piles of silks, veils, and golden chains meticulously folded or hung by the temple servants. A pang of guilt hit her as she glanced at the mess she'd made nearby. She moved to straighten it when her eyes landed on a gown she'd dismissed out of hand earlier.

She lifted it up, the pale lavender shimmering softly in the morning light. _This one_, she thought. Its long robes and layered silk scarves would cover her from neck to feet. If he was serious, then she was not going to make it easy for him. Nothing screamed desperation like showing off every inch of skin possible.

_I have been away too long from you, esteemed kai._ _Despite our differing beliefs, your wisdom is a balm to my soul and spirit. _

_From you_, the words echoed in Zaiyra's mind as she pressed the gown against her body. They'd been communicating, openly and in secret, for several seasons. Passionate debate had morphed into poetry and philosophical musings. Khoru was subtle. Subtle enough that she doubted his feelings as she wrapped the silks around her body. She had to know for certain. Had to know if the thought of seeing her sent flutters of excitement through him, made his hearts pound like drums as her's did even now. No one had ever made her feel like this before. She felt like an acolyte again, stumbling through the motions, awkward and nervous while others silently judged her.

Zaiyra helped her acolytes get dressed, reminding them what to do and say when the emissaries from Dar'Isan arrived. She met Gaidulus and his acolytes just as they had begun to ascend to the top of the temple, his relief palpable when she arrived with Tethris, Izuren, and V'kora in tow.

"It is unlike you to be late," he commented.

"Forgiveness," she murmured.

She stared at him in surprise as he offered his arm to her, stuttering out a polite decline before they continued on in silence.

Her excitement overcame her curiosity at Gaidulus' unusual gesture, the temple horn blaring its call as soon as the expected ship was spotted.

Just as before, she and Gaidulus stood in the center while the elders and priests and priestesses encircled them from behind. The manta-like craft sighed as it landed, Zaiyra squeezing her hands together as the emissaries strode forth, Khoru among them.

They locked eyes and she hid her smile with a bow of her head.

_**Three Years Ago…**_

Zaiyra and Khoru walked the edges of the gardens, as far from the temple as possible. The Eastern priest had kept his distance until now. Every so often he would lean in to make a joke or whisper something that made her blush, his arm gently wrapped around her shoulders. As they entered a tunneled canopy, Khoru plucked a pale flower from the tangled ivy, offering it to her. "We do not have anything as beautiful as this in Dar-"

Zaiyra kissed him before she could think, before her better judgment made her second guess herself, before they returned to the temple that was her prison once more.

One hand clutched his, the flower crushed beneath the ferocity of her desire while her other hand slid through his black tendrils and gripped the back of his neck, claws digging into his flesh. Khoru did not resist, letting her push him against the trunk of a nearby tree.

She pulled away, breathlessly searching his face. "Please tell me you want this. Please tell me you will not let me suffer another moment of loneliness in this world."

Zaiyra's hearts thundered inside her chest as Khoru took each of her hands and kissed their palms. His golden, glowing eyes found hers and she tensed, afraid.

"I am yours till death if you wish it."

The knots in her stomach unfolded, a smile breaking across her face as relief washed over her.

The hum of insects and bird song drowned out their sounds of passion. Evening gave way to night, the scarred moon Ga'oul looming over the eastern horizon.

_**Present...**_

Zaiyra threaded her hands through his long locks, panting as her pleasure ebbed away. Khoru rolled off of her, drawing her close and kissing her in the darkness. Silken sheets sighed beneath them, scented heat lamps filling the room with a soft orange glow. Contentment wrapped itself around her like a warm blanket, the heat of her skin pulsing in time with her hearts. She could lie here, forever, with him.

His mandibles nipped at her own, claws gently caressing her curves. Khoru had been insatiable the past few days, stealing her away at every chance, taking her with a ferocity that would've surprised her had they not been separated for so long. Months had felt like years, the agony of her desire teased by his lustful notes. She had replied in kind, eager to hear about his time in the court of Dar'Isan. Ghost, her faithful protector since her youth, was the only one amongst her bodyguards she trusted with the knowledge of their affair. He made sure their communication remained encrypted and that no one disturbed her at times like this one.

Khoru pulled her close and she nuzzled his chest, willing her anxious thoughts away. She could worry about everything later. The high priestess wanted to savor this moment for as long as possible.

Khoru rumbled. "Zaiyra."

"Hm?"

"Are you happy?"

She stroked one of his tendrils draped over his wide shoulders, his strong, male scent filling her mouth. "With you? Always."

The priest pushed himself up, resting on his forearm to look down at her. His golden eyes glittered with an intensity that both worried and excited her. Was he going to take her again? Was twice in one day not enough to slake his desire? Zaiyra's brows furrowed and she caressed his smooth jaw. "What is it, sa'eran?"

He took her hand in his, kissing her palm. "I want to ask you something, something I have no right to, but…"

Zaiyra remained still, emerald eyes searching his face as she waited.

"...I want you to join me in Dar'Isan."

"What?" Khoru's words sent a thrill down her spine and filled her stomach with dread. She wanted this. She couldn't. A thousand thoughts flickered through her mind. "Khoru... I don't understand."

"Saa, you do. You know exactly what I'm asking." He rolled over her, straddling her waist, his dark tendrils falling around their faces like a curtain. "Churande's going to name me kai soon, I know it. Sever your bond with Gaidulus. Come back with me to Dar'Isan." His cupped his hands around her jaw, thumbs caressing her upper mandibles. "With you by my side, we can unite the temples and prevent the schism from growing any worse. I know how dedicated you are to Kuuroch and your… beliefs. But we can find a way to make it work."

Zaiyra's hearts raced. He couldn't be serious. The tenuous peace between the orthodoxy, which held that the God and Goddess were separate and the High Clan was descended from Ashann, and the Sa'erazanites, which professed the God and Goddess to be the same based on Ahandra's visions of the prophet himself, were at stark odds with each other. For ten years they'd parlayed at the behest of the shans, but all that had come from it was a simmering hostility and religious skirmishes in the central territories between the two great cities as zealots battled for converts.

He slid two fingers over her mouth before she could speak. "Don't say anything, sa'eran. All that I ask is that you think about it and what you want for yourself."

"Myself?"

"I've seen the way the elders treat you. Like you're still an acolyte trying to prove yourself to everyone even though you're twice as clever and wise as the entire group of those old fools put together."

"And Gaidulus… he doesn't appreciate you. Not like I do. As kai. As a female." Khoru pressed himself onto her, biting the sensitive flesh of her neck with his fangs. She shuddered, hips involuntarily pressing against his thigh.

After he left her to steal away back to his quarters, Zaiyra sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, desire warring with fear as she stared into the gloom. To be with the male she loved, at the cost of destroying everything she believed in. Pain gripped her chest as the weight of world pressed in around her, claws gripping the silken sheets, her breath in heaving gasps.

_Oh One, what do I do? I can't make this choice. I need you. I need Ahandra. I need answers. _


	11. A Shadow

**Author's Note: **Hi everyone. I'm so sorry about the delay in getting chapters out and also for any errors as I wrote and edited most of this chapter in just several hours. Normally, I let chapters marinate for a few days before posting, but I didn't want to wait. Enjoy!

* * *

**Previously: **Trapped in a dispassionate marriage**, **high-priestess Zaiyra of Kuuroch indulges in an affair with a young priest from the ruling city of Dar'Isan. After several years, he asks her to return with him rather than be separated any longer.

* * *

**Pronunciation Guide:**

**Esska **\- ESS-kah

**Ija **\- EE-jah

**rashali** \- rah-SHAH-lee - herd animals bred for food and clothing

**threitak** \- THREY-tack - fire blood/bloodfire – the inner rage that possesses all yautja, especially males

**Üzruk** \- OOZ-ruck

* * *

**A Shadow**

* * *

The harsh heat of the two suns above only served to make Tharrak's pounding headache worse. The city around him shuffled along, the events of the night before a bleary haze for most. Slaves had swept and cleaned away most of the blood and leftover bones, but they could not entirely remove the pungent scent of alcohol and aggression that lingered over the scorching air. He avoided the roads he and Sira had walked, trying, and failing, to keep his thoughts away from her and on the task at hand. All of his accounts had been settled or closed, save one. Tharrak adjusted the load over his back and set his shoulders squarely towards his goal: the ziggurat palace of Shajara Israzal.

The guards did not touch his tribute, as dictated by law. Instead, they scanned it, grunting when they found nothing. They let him pass, eyeing him with suspicion, Tharrak's reputation well-known. Since his public battle with the bounty hunters, other clients had sought him out, offering varying types of work. Bodyguard. Mercenary. Assassin. He'd declined them all.

A female slave with twisting tendrils guided him down a side passage, silk curtains swaying in the breeze as golden light poured through elongated windows stretching from floor to ceiling. She left him with two guards, both of whom scanned him again. One followed him inside after they deemed him no threat.

Unlike the opulence of the central chamber where the shajara received emissaries and passed judgment, this room was stark and simple. Retired clan banners hung from the sandstone walls, tattered and stained from many battles. A crimson rug spilled from beneath an obsidian desk and down several steps below the raised dais. Tharrak stopped at the rug's edge, lowering his offering to the floor, and bowed, pressing his knees and forehead into the soft material. He hated groveling before any highborn — but he needed to leave the city without incident. The seconds stretched as he waited for the shajara to acknowledge him.

A low growl allowed him to finally sit up, Israzal waving away the holo-images hovering atop the desk and leaning back against his chair. "What do you want, mask maker?" The final words came out as a hiss.

Tharrak knew he must tread carefully. He may have avoided death at the shajara's hands last time, but the scars from his judgment still ached, the scourge master's whip likely laced with a nerve-damaging toxin. "Mighty shajara—"

"Spare me the flattery," he snarled, his face brightening with anger. "I have had to listen to simpering, drunken fools chitter and lie all festival. Speak plainly or leave."

Tharrak's hands clenched above his knees. So much for being polite. "Fine. I am closing my shop here in Sahar indefinitely. I have completed and delivered on all of my contractual obligations, save one." He placed a hand on the pouch next to him.

Sighing, the shajara gestured to the slave kneeling in the corner and the older male quickly scurried forward and grabbed the pouch, gently laying the offering in front of Israzal. After the slave had bowed and retreated, the shajara leaned forward, inspecting the pouch. Tharrak watched as he pulled the black box from within, tensing as the latches snapped open and the lid silently lifted open.

He'd spent months working on it. Even after hajara Raika's fall from favor. Doubts began to creep into his mind as the shajara stared silently at the mask. He should've abandoned it, left it to gather dust in his workshop. But he hadn't, the allure of such a complex project undeniable. He'd grown weary of making filtration gear and repairing mercenary masks. This mask had tested all of his skills, the only thing left he had to remember his master by. _If only I had his wisdom, _Tharrak thought to himself.

A harsh, hollow laugh finally broke the silence as Israzal picked up the mask to inspect it. "A mask. Do you take me for some sort of fool? As if I'd ever wear one made by you, even one as exquisite as this." He tossed it back into the box, disgust written upon his wrinkled brow and clenched mandibles.

Tharrak would have been lying to himself if he'd said his pride wasn't wounded. He swallowed his anger and shrugged. "You may do with it as you wish. I have merely done what I was asked to do."

"_She_ asked you to do this. Do you take pleasure in reminding me of her betrayal? Or was 30 lashes not enough to teach you humility?"

"I couldn't leave it unfinished." The truth sounded selfish out loud. "And I never go back on my word. Break it. Sell it. Wear it. I don't care. Payment has already been made and I'm leaving this forsaken city, probably for good."

The shajara huffed. "Now you dishonor my city."

"You dishonored my work," Tharrak snapped back. _C'jit. Why can't I keep my tongue still?_

Israzal snarled and Tharrak immediately felt hands digging into his shoulders and arms. "You've tested my patience to the breaking point, mask maker! Get out. Get out and never come back."

As his guards dragged the male out and the door slammed shut, Israzal stood there, seething in a quiet rage. He cursed the male and cursed himself. His temper frayed too easily of late. Which only made his headaches worse. The shajara looked down at the mask, silver threading and plates adorning the mouth, which fanned outward from the jaw and cheekbones. A long, elegant fin sprouted from between the eyes, splitting the skull cap in half. Intricate patterns and layers hinted that mask was modular and capable of altering to suit his mood. Proud, fierce, fickle. The mask maker had captured his very essence. He would not wear it, he told himself as he flipped it over to see the inside. Israzal froze, a whispered curse escaping his throat.

An elegant face stared up at him, eyes narrowing at some silent joke. That face, _her_ face, haunted his dreams. He should throw it away. Break it into a thousand pieces.

"Üzruk." The slave approached, bowing. "Take this to my chambers."

"At once, shajara."

He packed up the mask and hurried out of sight, leaving Israzal to his memories and regrets.

Just outside the palace, Tharrak landed hard against the jagged stone, his back aching from the long fall down the steps. Mustering as much dignity as he could, Tharrak stood, ignoring the guards watching him from above and the stares from below. It could've been worse. Much worse. He'd accept a few bruises over his skull hanging from the palace walls.

"What did you do this time, mask maker?"

Tharrak turned, surprised to see Interrogator Hrathka approaching him as he climbed the high steps.

"I gave the shajara a gift."

That earned him a chuckle. "I'll have to see this gift. Usually, he just rolls his eyes and waves them away."

It felt odd to be sharing a joke with the person who'd overseen his torture. _And Sira's._ "Right… well, I have a ship to be on. So I'll just… go."

A firm grip on his arm stopped him. "Go? Where are you going?"

_Tread lightly, Tharrak._

"West."

"Kuuroch?"

"Does it matter?"

"You wield a dark blade. So saa, it matters."

They stared at each other, infrasonic growls vibrating Tharrak's bones as threitak began to burn inside his chest.

Hrathka released his grip and clapped him on the shoulder. "I wish you luck, then." And then continued walking up the stairs.

Tharrak remained rooted, stunned by the sudden change in demeanor. What in the Hells just happened? Rather than look back, he continued down, replaying the conversation over and over in his mind. He found Harsan lounging at the docking station, scanning his datapad. The elder yautja looked up, squinting as Tharrak slumped into a chair beside him.

"How did it go?"

His head was killing him. The pain throbbed around his skull like a red halo. "Not now, uncle."

Overhead, the flight tower announced boarding had begun for the _Desert Song._

"That's us," Harsan said, grunting as he stood. "Our stuff's already on board. Shouldn't take more than a few hours to reach Kuuroch after a quick jump above atmosphere. Ready?"

"Saa." As they approached the ship, Tharrak couldn't help but imagine where Sira was now. He didn't like that fact that they were going in the opposite direction of Dar'Isan. He should be tracking down that High Clan slave. But perhaps his family could help in some way.

If they even wanted to help him.

* * *

**\|/**

* * *

The air tasted of nectar and perfume from a thousand blossoms. Speakers hidden inside exotic stone creatures sung gentle melodies, their amethyst bodies wrapped around wide, auburn pillars flecked with gold. The heated floor glowed a soft orange.

Normally, Sira would have marveled at such tranquil beauty and lingered to take it all in. She knew she'd glimpsed only a small fraction of the High Clan's palatial tower's beauty. But she felt no wonder. No awe. Only anxiety.

The floating palanquin she rode in was covered in heavy silks and wooden bars. _For her protection and comfort,_ Rengar had crooned. Sira normally gave everyone she met a chance. Rengar she'd given no such chance.

She'd returned to her mother the night before, threitak aching inside her hearts. Her mother hadn't asked questions, Sira's pain evidence enough of what had transpired between her and Tharrak. They simply closed the stall and went home. Unable to sleep, she'd stayed up and made tea. Then the door had swung open. Sira had been ready for Tharrak. Ready to apologize and make amends, when really she wanted to yell at him. She wasn't sure. Sira hadn't been ready for the imperious male sweeping down into their home and looking upon her like a long lost treasure. 'At last,' was all he'd said before ordering his fearsome guards to take them. No explanation offered. Not even when she'd been separated from her mother.

To make matters even more frustrating, Sira wasn't allowed to walk anywhere or be alone.

The palanquin drifted to a stop and one of the guards slid open a panel. Sira peeked out and was met with a soft gasp and sharp tsk. As she slid out, two female yautja grabbed her and briskly escorted her through a doorway, chittering between themselves the whole way.

"These clothes—"

"Absolute rags."

"Filthy."

"Unseemly. We must get them off."

"Don't even look at the nails, Ija. You'll faint."

"Nails? I can't look away from her skin, Esska.

"Too much to do."

"Not enough time."

Sira spun like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, her clothes stripped from her before she could say a word. More females appeared, all seemingly identical and wearing tight, silk-white smocks around their hips and torso. They rushed about at the two females' orders, taking measurements, scanning her, poking and prodding her body like a piece of fruit. Over it all, the two females chittered and clicked incessantly.

She glanced between the pair, barely able to keep up with their conversation. Ija (she assumed) was willowy and tall with narrow, high cheeks and long, billowing tendrils. Esska (she guessed) was thick and plump, part of her hair pulled back into an elaborate topknot. Ija had stripes. Esska had spots. Yet both spoke in the same, clipped accent and wore expensive silks, metal piercings decorating their skin.

She tried to interrupt, but neither seemed to possess the desire or inclination to breathe.

When Sira was laid across a low table and she felt hands spreading her legs, it was the last straw.

With a snarl, Sira swiped at the closest female and kicked away another. "Get off of me! Stop touching me. Get away!"

The small, identical females squeaked and scrambled away, huddling together like a frightened flock of rashali.

Ija gasped and Esska tsked.

"So unruly, this one."

"So violent."

"Not our problem."

"But the purification must continue."

Sira grabbed a tray and smashed it on the ground, sending several objects clattering across the floor. The flock squeaked in terror. "Yak'sallah! Tell me what is going on. Where is my mother? Why did you take my clothes? And why am I being purified? Where am I?!"

The room fell silent, Sira's chest heaving as the last shrill question left her throat. Her eyes ached and her stomach grumbled in hunger. She just wanted answers.

Ija approached her and Esska patted the cushioned table.

"Lak'shura, young one."

"We cannot say much."

"Only that you must undergo the rituals of purification."

"Only the pure may stand before the High Clan."

Sira trembled as she sat. "But why? What do they want with me? I'm just a slave."

Ija and Esska looked at each other and then back at her.

"We know this is hard."

"Many have come to us like you, scared."

"Bewildered."

"All will be explained soon."

"For now, we must purify and replenish your body."

Ija gestured for the other females to come forward.

"They will not hurt you." Esska patted Sira's hand. "They could not if they tried."

It was then Sira noticed the thin silver collars around each of their necks. They even lacked claws and their fangs had been filed dull. They were all slaves, even Ija and Esska as she studied them. She laid back down on the table, discomforted by the thought of being served by those like herself.

"First, your medical exam," Ija chirped, her demeanor abruptly cheerful.

Esska grunted in agreement. "Then, a long, long bath."

"And then we must have you oiled…"

Sira sighed and closed her eyes, too tired to resist the gentle hands pushing and pulling. Where was her mother? Where was Tharrak? What would he think when he found them gone?

* * *

**\|/**

* * *

Hidden from the scurrying the females and lights, a shadow lurked within the slave passage behind the far wall, one of hundreds woven throughout the palace. It cracked open the door, peering in for a better look. Its hopes confirmed, it shut the panel and slipped away into the darkness. _At last_, it thought. _She has finally come._


End file.
